Godric's story
by SpeculationTrain
Summary: This is the story of Godric's human life and his turning over 2000 years ago.
1. Chapter 1

It was midnight in the peristyle garden when I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He was as still and as white as the marble statues I had seen the stone masons carve in the narrow alleys between the Capitoline Hill and the Flaminium Circus. Underneath the glow of a full Roman moon, I noted many things at once: he wore a black, hooded cape of elegant cloth, he had a formal, patrician countenance, I saw his high cheekbones and fine aquiline nose. Nothing about him hinted at the lower classes; it appeared he had never worked a day under the hot southern sun. He was a man of great _dignitas._

"What is your name, slave?" the stranger asked in a quiet, amused manner.

For a split second, I hesitated. On the one hand, my survival depended upon my deferential conduct to important Roman citizens; any impertinence could cost me my life. On the other hand, here was a stranger in the inner sanctum of my master's house, and at an uncivilized hour. In an instant, I determined that he must be acquainted with my master in order to gain entry. Did not every man of consequence in the Republic have some connection with Rome's most important citizen?

"I am called Sextus, sir." As I answered, I cast my eyes downward in deference.

"No, I do not mean your slave name," the dark haired stranger corrected. His tone was gentle, and looked up into his eyes without thought. Those black orbs bore into my own.

"My given name is Godric," I said as thought the man forced the truth from my mouth.

"Ah, and you hail from Germania?" Although it was phrased as a question, it was not an inquiry.

All I could do was stare at the stranger, mute.

"The tattoo around your neck. It gives you away." He smiled slightly, and for the first time, I sensed danger. Perhaps he owned slaves from my homeland himself, but the breadth of his knowledge left me in no doubt of his intellect.

As if sensing my apprehension, the man's face relaxed as he cocked his head. "You speak our language exceedingly well, don't you young Godric?"

I nodded and out of force of habit, looked down.

"You needn't worry. I wish you no harm, and shall not report our meeting to your mistress. What's that you have in your hands?" He seemed simultaneously amused and curious, and for the second time, I couldn't help but answer.

I looked at the papyrus roll in my hand and said, "It is Homer, sir. The Odyssey."

The stranger gave a melodic laugh of disbelief, "Godric, the scholar slave. You surprise me, and I am not often surprised. You cannot have spoken our language long, and yet, you read Homer?"

"Yes, sir," I stammered, embarrassed. "My master requires education in his house slaves." I looked down again, perplexed and not knowing how to proceed, but when I looked up again, the stranger had vanished. I lit the olive oil filled terra cotta lamp and sat down on a bench next to the shallow pool and began my journey with Homer. Had the past few moments been but a dream?

*****

I was born near the great forests of Germania next to the river Rhine in what I believe to be about 64 years before the birth of Christ. This is as close an approximation as I can give since our tribe kept no calendar to mark the passage of time. My father, Ewald, was the chief of our tribe which belonged to the Cherusci people. My mother came from a people up north, near a great sea, called the Chauci. Her family had fled plague and famine and had found refuge with our tribe. They spoke a mutually understandable dialect and she was a tall and beautiful woman. Our tribe was always in need of women, and my father gave her protection. My name came from her people.

Ours was a warrior culture. From the time I could walk, I was instructed in the ways of battle. Our training was regimented, lasting hours each day. We learned hand to hand combat with numerous weapons, we learned combat strategy. We kept physically fit, running and lifting as battle required prolonged exertion. In those times, fighting well meant freedom; losing battle meant slavery, rape of our women, and annihilation.

It was my shame that I was not built like the great warriors. My brother, Hartwin, five years my senior, was tall and blond with the strength of an ox, the living embodiment of all that could be desired in a warrior. I was short with dark hair and resembled my father's mother, a Gaul stolen across the river. However, I knew the forests around our village well and could run fast but with stealth. It was my fate to be a scout.

In my seventh summer, I was ordered to accompany my brother, Hartwin, to patrol the forests. We were always on the lookout for marauding Gauls crossing the Rhine, or other Cherusci attempting to violate peace treaties. At twelve, Hartwin was taller than our father, but not yet strong enough to fight should war arrive.

On our fourth night of scouting, voices filtered through the forest. We quietly followed their sound and realized soon enough that the voices were numerous and loud and belonged to an unfamiliar people.

What I saw in the distance under the light of the moon knocked me to my knees. Thousands of men, working in concert like forest ants, were busy building a massive wooden structure across the Rhine. They were building a bridge and had already accomplished much. Hartwin and I had patrolled this area, five miles from our village, just days ago, and it was deserted. Now, it was filled with thousands upon thousands of soldiers with red capes and ingenious metal armor and plumed helmets, all working in unison to ford this river in a feat of engineering that was beyond my imagination. These were great and powerful people: it was my first glimpse of the Romans.

The Romans, we understood, were battling the Gauls who owned the lands across the Rhine. Many people of the Cherusci had established trade with the Romans, and they had stated intentions of remaining in Gaul. Not anymore. Hartwin and I fled to our father immediately.

By the time we reached Ewald, word had reached him of the Roman invasion. Our tribe had been visited by representatives of Ariovistus, a Germanic mercenary of the Suebi people. He had been in league with Rome, but then had attacked the mighty people. He wanted Ewald and our tribe to join him in his fight against the Romans. Ewald was a shrewd judge of character and had prior dealings with Ariovistus finding him dishonorable and untrustworthy. He refused to join the mercenary, a move that would mark my father as a traitor to his own people. Either way, a battle was brewing: we could fight the Romans or we could fight the Suebi. Our tribe revered my father's judgment and agreed to evacuate the village. Hartwin and I would remain behind and scout the battle.

It took the Romans only ten days to complete their miraculous bridge. Hartwin and I watched as they crossed the bridge and stepped onto our lands, dug defensive trenches, pitched tents and prepared for war.

War did not come fast, but when it came, my brother and I watched the slaughter from a close vantage point. In those days, women and children accompanied their men to battle, egging their men into a frenzy, and sometimes fighting themselves. It was called the battle of Vosges and it would haunt the memories of our people for hundreds of years. With the same skill and determination that they constructed their bridge, the Romans systematically cut down Germanic forces. Although Ariovistus had recruited hundreds of thousands of Suebi and the Romans were vastly out numbered, they were no match for the coordination and discipline of the Romans. The Suebi were slaughtered with impunity, men, women, and children alike, sparing only a few for slavery, even in the face of surrender. I later learned that the dead numbered 430,000. The battle field swam in blood.

****

The following evening, I entered the peristyle garden, my only time alone in a long day. My main work consisted of recording and reconciling the household accounts and that work consumed my day. As a trusted and favored slave, I was allowed to read at night when the house rested. This was my favorite time in Rome, the blazing Roman sun gone, that orb so much stronger and oppressive than its weaker northern counterpart. The Roman sun burned my fair skin and drained my strength so I rejoiced in the cool breezes that graced the Palatine Hill at night.

"Hello, Godric," the melodic voice whispered.

Startled, I looked up. "Good evening, sir." The cloaked stranger stood stock still in the exact spot he stood last night. Blood filled my cheeks: I had convinced myself I had dreamed this creature, yet here he was, marble white with a shock of black hair. He was real.

"My name is Appius," the man said in answer to my unsaid question. "It was rude to not previously introduce myself. I found I have some questions for you, young Godric."

This was confusing. I was a slave, no longer a person, no longer of consequence. How could this noble Roman who could kill me with a whisper, wish to introduce himself to me and know my mind?

"You may relax," he smiled at me, "I only want you to answer some questions, truthfully, if you please. Not a word of our conversation shall ever reach other ears." He must have sensed my apprehension, for the tone of his voice was instantly smoothing.

"I will answer truthfully." My master had always counseled me on the importance of being frank, and I gulped air in the hopes of increasing my courage.

"What do you desire more than anything?" he asked. "What is your first thought on the subject?"

The answer was ridiculously easy, but I hesitated as the truth could end my life. "My freedom," I replied.

"Yes, yes, of course you want your freedom. What slave doesn't? Assuming you had your freedom, what is your greatest desire?"

"To be a warrior, of course." It was an answer that required no thought.

"But what of your reading, your languages? For it appears that you speak both Latin and Greek as well as your native tongue," he noted quickly,

"But I could have both, couldn't I?" There was not better example than my master. I looked at Appius straight in the eyes and said, "Nothing could be more glorious than fighting well in battle."

"Is that what you long for, Godric? Your people have no written language, your mind is filled with learning and you chose warfare?"

"My people, my tribe just recently obtained letters." I lifted the course sleeve on my right arm to reveal my runic tattoo. These symbols were permanently marked upon my skin to mark my passage into adulthood at the age of twelve.

"Ah..." he said as he came closer to take a better look. "They look vaguely Etruscan, a language I am intimately acquainted with, but I cannot make them out."

"They are symbols brought to our village by a fur merchant who traded with the Romans. I was captured before I knew their meaning," I noted.

"So, Godric, you have the heart of a warrior, the mind of a scholar, and an uncanny ability to not only survive, but to also thrive, in spite of your circumstances." A smiled curled at the corner of his mouth. "What would you be willing to sacrifice for your freedom, for the opportunity to be one of the fiercest warriors in history?"

I stared at the white face, not answering. Of course, I would sacrifice almost everything, anything for freedom, for battle, for the shackles of servitude to be lifted. To say so would be dangerous, indeed.

"Think about my offer. I shall see you again." With that, Appius walked around the shallow pool of the garden and melted into the darkness.

***

At the age of twelve, I became a man. For three years, our people had reeled in the aftermath of the Battle of Vosges, and my chieftain father, Ewald, had risen to the ranks of a regional leader of many tribes due, in part, to his wise decision to rebuke Ariovistus. No one who had previously called Ewald a traitor was alive to repeat that slur.

The force of Rome had shaken our people to the core. Although Hartwin no longer patrolled the forests with me, my skills in that regard had increased significantly. The forest was my home, and I could move in her with impunity. At eighteen, Hartwin was a blond giant, broad shouldered and as talented a warrior as our tribe possessed. My favorite pass time was to be schooled in battle skills by him. However, in the forest, I was the skilled one.

The night following midsummer of my twelfth year saw me patrolling once again. This time, when I heard the voices drift through the woods, they were no longer foreign: the Romans had arrived again. I spotted them across the Rhine, this time closer to our village than ever. Immediately, I returned quickly and quietly to my father.

Upon the news, my father issued orders which gave me great pleasure: "Godric, you shall keep close to the Romans. Observe everything, and report back every two days." It was an important job and left to me alone. "We do no understand Roman intentions and will not engage in battle unless they attack first. However, we must prepare."

It was only a matter of days before timber was felled and construction of a new bridge began. I watched transfixed as large logs were piled into the river bed by ingenious pounding instruments, the Roman worker ants busy and coordinated. It took them eighteen days to ford the river; they seemed in no great hurry this time.

It was as they crossed the river that I first saw their leader, striding a horse ahead of his troops. His face was pale and handsome, his hair receding, but his most remarkable feature were his eyes: they were pale blue, the color of my people, but with a depth and intelligence that seared through anyone caught in their path. His men called him Caesar.

I recognized him as a great warrior. This recognition had nothing to do with the skill in which he had slaughtered our people, but with the efficiency in which he able to marshall his troops and the loyalty he garnered. His men would follow him to sure death and would do so gladly.

The moment the Romans arrived on our side of the Rhine, they dug camp. I observed them from a close distance for a number of days, faithfully reporting to my father. After two weeks of encampment, I saw no signs of war preparation. It was at the end of my third week of observation that I made an uncharacteristic mistake.

It was daytime and I was too close to the Roman camp, too sure of my skills. An eagle screeched above my head and, rather than focusing my attention on my targets, I looked up and saw the winged giant gracefully riding a current below the tree line, close enough to hit with a stone. When I looked down, two Roman soldiers with wide grins greeted me. Within the span of a moment, my freedom was gone.

I was led to a tent, larger than any of that ever seen by my people, made of leather and expertly stitched. On a chair at the end of the tent, upon a raised platform, sat their leader, whose look I could not discern. He spoke with my hostage takers in his language and then sharply turned the entire force of his focus on me. I felt the breath leave my chest.

Without thought, I fell to my knees and uttered the words I had heard his soldiers say, "Ave, Caesar." With head down, I put my hands to the ground and completely prostrated myself. Perhaps the deference would gain me a quick death, rather than prolonged torture. Hartwin and I had witnessed Roman torture five years past and the thought made me shudder.

Caesar laughed. "Arise and speak to me," he uttered in my own tongue. I quickly scrambled to my feet.

"How long have you been observing us?" his face was pleasant and turned into a smile which formed a hundred tiny wrinkles around his eyes.

"Three weeks, sir," I managed to stammer through my astonishment at he ease in which he spoke my language.

"Three weeks? We have let a child observe us for three weeks?" He shook his head and looked at me with the full force of his eyes. "My patrols are usually more efficient. I shall call you 'Little Ghost'. Where do you live and who are your people?"

"My people are the Cherusci, and our village is but three miles down the river." I felt grateful for the opportunity to talk; it prolonged my life. "My father, Ewald, is a great chief over many tribes." Would this admission hinder my execution or hurry it?

His face relaxed and he spoke his language with the others in the room. "Excellent. We are favored by Fortune, Little Ghost. I will send a messenger to your father and explain that you are to be our guest." I understood immediately. I was taken prisoner by the Romans to ensure that my father would not cross the Rhine and interfere with Roman interests.

"Sir," I hoped my speaking out of turn would not give too great an offense, "my father, Ewald, did not join Ariovistus and he will not attack Rome, even on our lands, unless of course, you attack first."

"Yes, I know perfectly well of your father, and you, Little Ghost, will insure that he will never cross the river into Roman Gaul. For the lands across the river, all the way to Italy, are now under the auspices of Rome. You will be treated well, Little Ghost, for it is in our interests to make sure that nothing bad should befall you. Helios, come here."

A short, dark balding man came out from the shadows and bowed his head in deference to Caesar. He wore a rough hewn tunic and sandals, and I guessed that he was a slave.

"Helios here speaks your language. We have had five years to practice, and in fact, he speaks almost any many tongues as I do. He is a learned and valuable slave, a scholar and a teacher, and you shall be under his care. A word of caution, Little Ghost: you must obey him as you would me. The more you learn from him, the more use you will be to me. The more you are of use to me, the better your situation. Do we have an understanding?"

"Yes, sir," I said. And I did understand. I understood my life was no longer my own. I understood learning as much as I could would increase my comfort. I understood that I would not see my mother, father, Hartwin, or the forests of Germania ever again.

****

For the next two years, I joined the Romans in their battles against the Gauls. Not that I was allowed to fight, although the battles were numerous, and I longed to don battle armor and be a legionary. Instead, I was tutored. It took only six months before I could speak Latin and Greek and another six before I could read and write both. This facility with language would serve me well for all the years that followed.

Helios was an excellent teacher, patient and thorough and learning kept my mind occupied. Without the total immersion into learning, the hole left by the absence of my family would have consumed me. He introduced me to philosophy, history, mathematics, and theater. His wealth of knowledge was breathtaking.

"Helios," I ventured one night. "You are Greek and Greece has been a Roman province for hundreds of years. You are a teaher. How could you, of all people, be a slave?"

"Gambling debts," he noted, "I could not pay off my debts, which were incurred one night when I enjoyed too much wine. So, I sold myself into slavery to someone in need of my skills to pay off my debts. Caesar is a great man. If I do well, one day I may yet gain my freedom. He expects a great deal from those who are around him, but no more than he does from himself. If you serve him well, you may one day when you are older, earn your freedom, Sextus." He always called me by my formal slave name.

"But, Helios, I have so much more to learn." I lamented the fact that the more I learned, the more my ignorance became apparent to me.

Once I masted rudimentary mathematics, I found I enjoyed it as much as languages. At the end of my second year of captivity, I began to help Helios with accounting matters dealing with the campaign and much of that involved the slave trade. Slavery was immensely profitable and helped to finance Caesar's wars in Gaul. By the conclusion of the final battle for Gaul, the battle of Alesia, Caesar owned millions of slaves, and I became deeply grateful for my fate, a fate which did not resemble most of those whom I documented. Many were slated to be sold in rural Italy as laborers. My position was excellent in comparison and I gained a resolve to study harder.

After Caesar's fight with the Senate of Rome at the conclusion of the Gallic Wars, after his march on Rome and conquest of the city, I became the property of Gaius Julius Caesar himself, taken into his household and made to work on his personal household accounts. When Caesar soon left Rome to chase his conservative enemies who had fled south, I was left behind in Rome to serve his wife, Calpurnia. When she branded me with the slave emblem of her house, she did so on my right shoulder, rather than on my hands or forehead as was customary. It was a mark of respect which made my heart glad. No slave could have asked for more.

***

"Sextus", she rasped, "I am unwell." I looked at my mistress as she reclined in her bed chamber and had to concur: she looked quite unwell.

"I require a physician. You are to go to the Subura and fetch Caesar's physician, a Jew by the name of Abraham. Caesar told me that should I require emergency errands at night, that I must enlist you. Here is the address. You must go alone."

The Subrua was the tenement area to the east of the forum, taking the space between the forum and the Viminal Hill. The better apartment buildings were brick and had shops on the first floor, the poorer ones were made of wood. This was not the safest area during the daytime, but at night, it was outright dangerous. Rome had no police force, no one to enforce laws or protect victims from violent crime.

This was also the area in which my master was raised. Although from a noble family, my master's mother wanted him raised in the old Roman principles of stoic simplicity, not surrounded by wealth or excess. It was in the Subura that Caesar learned the many languages spoken there and developed a respect for different cultures, particularly the Jews. The old Jewish doctor had known Caesar since childhood and no other physician in Rome was ever allowed to treat him or his family.

After donning a black cloak, I quietly fled the safety of the Palatine Hill and slid through the forum, towards the Subura. Other than avoiding a group of three drunks exiting a tavern, I made haste to the doctor's apartment with little trouble. That the doctor should immediately rouse from bed and accompany me was taken for granted.

Although old, Abraham was not frail, and he knew the alleys of the Subura and the best path out, avoiding taverns and trouble. We easily left the danger, only to be stopped my prostitutes canvassing the forum for easy money. I showed them Caesar's seal and they stopped their harassment mid-sentence. We reached the door of my master's house, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Godric, a word alone with you," Appius said.

"Of course, sir. Allow me to let the doctor in the house," I said, relieved to open the door and push the doctor inside. I exhaled with satisfaction at a job well done, turning my face to the noble man.

"I must leave the city soon," he started, "and I was curious as to your thoughts on my offer," he said more seriously than I had heard him speak before.

Perhaps it was the enveloping darkness, or the still coursing adrenalin in my veins, but I did not hesitate in addressing Appius directly and without fear. "The fact that you would consider purchasing my freedom," for I could not understand any other way out of slavery, "is very generous. How could I be of use to you in combat? You do not look like a warrior?"

"What I offer you is complete and absolute freedom, a freedom you cannot yet comprehend," Appius said.

"And, you will be strong beyond your understanding, able to crush a man with your bare hands. You will be a warrior without equal. You would be able to live as long as you choose, and I would be your guide through this new world, and your companion. Beyond that, I cannot explain in any manner in which you would understand. The important point is this: I a giving you a choice. Your decision, however, must be made now. If you refuse, you will go back to slavery and, as you know, the choices are few indeed."

It took me only a moment to reply. "I choose freedom. My time in servitude has not been harsh, but I long to have choice and to be my own master."

As I uttered the last word, Appius swept me in his arms and ran at blinding speed. In an instant we were in a dark and dank place; the smell was horrible.

"What is this place," I said as my eyes tried to adjust.

"We are in the sewers of Rome. Relax, young Godric. You must relax and trust me."  
A sharp pain seized my neck before I drifted off into a darkness I had never known before.


	2. Chapter 2

Darkness engulfed me as I floated through time and space; I was ever expanding, reaching out with my mind, searching in the void. Peace and comfort were here, ready to embrace and penetrate me, until I was one with this place. Time had lost all meaning for me as I floated without form.

Ever so softly, in the distance, I heard my maker's voice calling me back to him. "No!" I cried out. I did not want to leave, to return to such a crude form as before, but I was unable to resist his call and awoke in my body, cradled by his large arms.

My first memory as vampire was waking in his embrace, "Appius," I said my throat raspy and sore. I went to cover my nakedness and tried to look about me, but my body was too weak.

"Shhh, you are safe. We are in my gardens." Appius said laying me back on a soft couch and continued to wash me.

I looked up into the night sky, the moon hanging large and low above me. "Am I dead?" I asked, feeling a stranger now, back in my body.

Appius did not respond but continued to wash my flesh, and he seemed to take great pride from my form. He spoke softly, the words meant for his own enjoyment, but they lulled me still.

I relaxed and inhaled deeply, the scent of jasmine permeating the night air. I heard the sponge drop to the floor and felt Appius roll my body to the side, as he lay down next to me.

His hand roamed over my form, coming to rest on my manhood; weakened and robbed of blood, it was flaccid to his touch, and I was shamed by it.

"Have you pleased a man before?" Appius asked, gently rolling my balls in his hand.

"Once, my mistress ordered me to lay with a soldier." I shuddered with the memory.

"Ahhh, I will show you pleasures you have never dreamt of." He pressed his hardness against my back, moving away to position it at my opening.

I stiffened with remembrance of the pain I had endured before, but he gently stroked the side of my face and did not press any further. I watched transfixed as he ripped his wrist open with his teeth. "Drink my blood and live as a god."

I turned my head, repulsed by the dark blood oozing out.

"Drink, my child," Appius insisted as he pressed the gaping wound to my lips.

My nostrils filled with the scent of his blood, and my tongue lapped at it, instinctively knowing it was life. At first, I was unsure, but then urges I'd never felt before compelled me to take his wrist in my hands, my fangs slid down and pierced his flesh. Appius moaned behind me, and I felt his hardness slowly and patiently enter me, and as he filled me, I welcomed it.

I was born again that night in the arms of my maker, greedily suckling from his wrist as a newborn would on a milk-filled breast.

Finally, I heard my maker whisper into my ear, "Stop, my son, stop."

I reluctantly pulled away from the wound, licking it clean, reveling in a new felt strength coursing through my body. All of my senses were alert; the night was no longer dark, but filled with light and shades of color of which I had not perceived before. My ears heard a small child cry in the city below, and my penis filled with blood, engorged and aching.

"You have done well," he said, reaching around to encircle my manhood with his large hand. I had never known the pleasure of another's touch, and threw back my head against his shoulder as he plunged fully into me. I was caught in a circle of lust and desire, with each thrust and pump of his hand, my body convulsed, and I screamed out into the night my pleasure, and finally was satiated. But he did not stop; he lay inside me and waited until I was ready again. Then he would resurrect me as from the dead, over and over, until my body was completely spent, and I could take now more. Only then did he turn me on my stomach, riding me hard for his own pleasure, and made my body ache with use. I must have passed out from exhaustion because I awoke to hear him scream out and fill me with his seed. Finally, he slumped over my form with his own blessed completion.

I awoke the next night in complete darkness, my eyes searching for some light, until finally I saw my maker sitting, staring out the cave entrance. Not knowing where we were or how we traveled here, I hesitantly stood up.

"I had forgotten how long it takes a young one to wake." Appius spoke with his calm voice. "How do you feel this night?"

My memory floated back to the previous evening, and I blushed at the remembrance of his body twined with mine. Then, a deep gnawing in the pit of my stomach pitched me over. "I am hungry," I managed to utter before falling down into the dirt.

"It is like this, for a time, until you are stronger. We will feed tonight," he said, and then disappeared into the night.

A time later, since I was so young it is hard to judge a span of time, he returned looking flush. "I have brought you a cruor fructus for your first feeding."

I was unsure what he meant, still so unsure of what I was. The child looked weak, almost unable to stand up unassisted.

"Come," he said, instructing me to sit next to the child. "He is owned by a cruel master. Tonight you will release him from his chains and let him rise up to the gods. Remember to always honor these humans who feed us. You must never cause them fear or harm, if it can be avoided."

The child gazed at Appius, totally relaxed, and I noticed his eyes were heavy as if drugged. "We can enter their minds with our thoughts. He feels loved and safe now. He is at peace," Appius said, explaining what I would later learn.

My eyes ran over the child's abused body. There were fresh lash marks across his back and an unhealed brand on his forehead.

"Feel his heartbeat. Feel his blood call to you," Appius instructed while placing my hand on the boy's chest.

My fangs slipped down, hard and aching, and I pierced my tongue from inexperience. Inhaling deeply, I smelled the sweet scent of his blood as my eyes searched over his small form for the juiciest vein. Two puncture wounds, the scent told me they were made by Appius, on his neck and upper leg caught my eye.

Sensing what I was feeling, Appius encouraged me, "He has been used for that purpose, my child. You will not harm him with your attention."

My hand slid down to his wrist, and I brought it to my mouth harshly.

"Gentle, always remember to honor their blood offering." Appius chided me for my impatience. "We will travel soon, search for the battles you long for, to fight, feed, and kill our enemies. But here, now, you must learn to control your hunger."

Appius stroked my hair and came to sit beside me, helping me to slowly raise the wrist to my mouth and showed me how to softly slide my fangs into the skin. The blood was warm and sweet, the most delicious nectar I had ever tasted. I felt his heartbeat, his life pass before my eyes, as I drank from him. Appius pulled me away from the wound and carried the boy to the ground where he had laid a soft blanket. He instructed me to lay behind the boy and drink from his neck.

"Now, my child, learn of pleasure," Appius said, lying facing the boy, and reaching over to stroke my hair, encouraging and watching my progress.

Never had I been inside of another, but instinct will never disappoint, and I entered into his tight sheath while I drank of his life blood and watched my master's approval in his eyes.

We wrapped the boy's small body in a clean linen cloth and placed coins on his eyes for Charon, then buried him in a grave near the entrance to the cave. Appius made an offering to the gods, while I placed some narcissus I found growing nearby, on his grave.

"It is time for us to leave here." He stood looking out over the city. "Where would you like to go? The world is at our feet."

"What are we?"

"We are gods," he said simply.

"_Gods_," I thought, from a slave to a god.

"I would like to see Alexandria. The woman, who seduced my old master, is there. He said it is a place of learned men and great wealth." What I didn't realize was that very day, Gaius Julius Caesar was knifed to death, his blood seeping into the Senate floor of the Rome he loved so much.

* * *

cruor fructus = blood fruit (indicating something fresh and young)

Thank you for reading.

I do not own any rights to any of Charlaine Harris' books or the HBO show True Blood.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: This is latbfan (*cheerfully waves*), writing the third installment of our Round-Robin fanfic. For unknown reasons, our two previous authors failed to sign their work, which is a shame because both chapters are really well done. fulvia wrote the first chapter, and Twitche wrote the second, if anyone wants to send their compliments. Hopefully, as more writers add to Godric's tale, they'll also add their pennames. If anyone reading this would like to join in and write a chapter, please PM me.

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Chapter 3

The soft buzz of the door returns me to the present, and I glance at the monitors that show various angles of the different entrances to my safe room. Isabel stands motionlessly outside my bedroom door at the nest, and I sigh, knowing there is no escaping her forever.

I listen to the gentle hiss as the door shuts behind me, leading me to a small chamber and the second security door, and then the third. Each door requires its own identification – a thirty digit pin, a retinal scan, and finally, a drop of my blood. I slowly walk through the underground tunnel towards the nest. I have other secret entrances concealed throughout the city that lead to my tunnel, all protected against intruders and accidental adventurers. Once I'm sealed inside my tomb, it's impenetrable.

I come up through a hidden trap door in the closet and lock it before opening the door for Isabel.

"Sheriff," she says, bowing low before me. "My apologies for disturbing you."

"Isabel," I gently chide. "You never disturb me. Please, welcome." I open the door wider and gesture to a chair before the large hearth. I flip a switch on the wall, and the fire roars to life. Another switch, and the light-tight shutters silently glide from the windows that cover two of the walls, a panoramic view of our lushly landscaped suburban yard visible in the moonlight. "How can I be of service?" I ask.

"Godric," she says, and her voice is quiet with concern. "You haven't come out of your room for nights. You haven't fed."

There are but a handful of creatures I've known in over 2,000 years whose company I enjoy, and Isabel is one of them. Like most hunters in the animal kingdom, the females of our species are far more deadly than the males. Very few vampiresses are able to live with other females for any length of time, and even fewer survive for centuries the way Isabel has. There's a soulful quietness to Isabel that I've always found pleasant, although in the hundreds of years since I met her, Isabel and I have never been physically intimate, which is why I'm comfortable wearing nothing but simple Egyptian cotton pants in her presence. It's a mutual respect that has kept us companions, not passion.

"I apologize for worrying you," I say as I sit in the chair next to her.

"May I bring someone for you? There are several available donors in the nest."

"No, thank you."

"Someone in particular you'd like me to send for?" she presses.

"I'm not hungry." She sighs, and I sense her unease, but I know she will not force the issue, a quality I appreciate. "What requires my attention this evening?" I ask.

"Britney is missing," she begins. "I suspect Stan is responsible. He denies it, of course, but…" she shrugs her shoulders. "This is his third incident this year. If he keeps it up, or we can't hide it…"

I nod. "I had hoped that, once I promoted him, his more secure position would temper his aggression." I sigh. "I was woefully mistaken."

"It's not your fault," she quickly adds.

"I am his Sheriff, and he is my responsibility. His kills are my kills."

"Godric," she begins.

"I'll speak to him," I interrupt. "See if you can discover where he hid the body, or what's left of it. Knowing Stan, he covered his tracks well, but I would like to offer her family the opportunity for a proper burial."

Isabel nods. "He's plotting something."

"What?" I ask.

"I don't know, but I sense something." Isabel's an empath, and I rely on her ability to accurately read the intentions and feelings of others. I've often suspected that her gift is what has kept her so compassionate despite her age. Like all talents, it's a double-edged sword, and she's worked hard over the centuries to block out signals. She once told me she doesn't hear humans at all unless she wants to, and as she said, why would she ever want to.

I sigh. "I'll speak to him," I repeat.

"Emanuel called," Isabel continues. "The Feds hired mercenaries, and the tunnel under the Rio Grande has been discovered."

"Vampires?" I ask.

"Weres."

I wearily rub my eyes. "That's rather surprising – the weres joining with the humans against us. I know we aren't their favorite species, but still…"

Isabel shakes her head. "I told Emanuel to make peace, but they've been warring in his Area for decades. Our intelligence claims only the El Paso pack is involved. I don't think we need to worry about all weres. At least not yet."

"They'll be forced to announce soon," I sigh. "At some point, we'll have to form more official and lasting alliances. But for the moment, we need to think of another way to get people across the border. Maybe we can buy off the pack, at least until another safe passage can be arranged."

"Maybe we could appeal to the President again."

I shake my head. "He ended the last meeting decidedly. The United States will offer sanctuary to all who go through official channels. Unfortunately, that does not help our persecuted South American brothers. If they make an official request, their governments will hunt them down. Mexico is the leading trader in V worldwide, and Venezuela isn't far behind. We have to find a way to safely get our brothers and sisters out of hiding."

"Emanuel wants you to call him immediately."

"Of course he does," I say. "He always does…" She doesn't speak, but the silence between us is comfortable. I stare into the fire for several minutes before continuing. "Please tell Emanuel that I will call before dawn, and call Nan Flanagon and make sure the AVL understands the situation before she flies over here in a snit. I don't want to see that woman again anytime soon, if possible. Is that all?"

Isabel nods. "Just the usual bookkeeping: new donors to interview, some new properties to consider purchasing, some guests passing through the Area." She waves dismissively with her delicate hand. "Our lawyer called. Apparently, the Neighborhood Association is filing another lawsuit to force us to move, but there's nothing I can't handle."

"Thank you, Isabel," I smile at her. "I'll speak with Stan tomorrow."

"Sheriff…"

"Please make those calls, Isabel," I interrupt, dismissing her. She stands and bows again before silently leaving, and I hear the door automatically lock when she closes it.

I stare into the flames and instead of solving problems, I allow my mind to wander to the same selfish place it's been circling for the past year: Eric. My father, my brother, my son. My Child. I need him. I smile at my own absurdity. I can see him tonight, if I want. I don't need to Call him to me; I can pick up my cell phone. I can drive to his Area in a matter of hours. But I don't move to fulfill my heart's desire. I sit, and I stare, and I feel the weight of 2,000 years pressing down on my shoulders.

I want to resign. I want to leave this place and go home. _Home_. Maybe I can convince Eric to accompany me. I know if I were to ask, he wouldn't deny me anything. I think back to the last time we stayed on his island off the coast of Iceland, accessible only to those who can fly, the rocks off shore too treacherous for a boat, the gusts too unpredictable for a helicopter. I want Eric in my arms in the hot-spring, the hot water bubbling up from the earth to collect in a natural rock pool not far from the house. I want to watch the snow flakes catch on his eyelashes while he frolics and plays like a child in the drifts. My Child. He's the only thing in this long life I've ever done right, the only action I don't now regret.

I've lived too long.

Weary of the tedium of my own thoughts, I click on the television. A news story is being covered with live shots from a helicopter hovering over a highway, one of those large green signs bent and lying on the side of the road. "The Reverend Newlin, along with his wife and their 18-month old daughter, Bethany, were all pronounced dead on arrival at Baylor Medical…" The screen flashed to a photograph, and the older man with his child-bride and baby smiled at the camera.

"Damnit!" I mutter as I turn off the television. I throw on a shirt and open the sound-proofed door. "Stan," I quietly say, knowing he'll be able to hear me. "I need to speak with you."

***

The smooth stones beneath my feet still held the heat of the day as I moved swiftly through the secret passageway to her chamber. The guards at the door moved their spears so I could pass, my frequent presence in the Queen's rooms not unknown. Cleopatra was pacing the room when I entered, and I fell to my knees. "My Queen," I said, my forehead touching the floor.

Appius had laughed at me when I told him I had pledged myself to her service, but I'd quickly grown tired of him. I didn't love him, although he was a fair and reasonable Maker. As soon as he had nothing left to teach me, I would leave him forever. That time was rapidly approaching, and I reveled in the knowledge that my freedom, true freedom, was so close at hand.

When we arrived in Alexandria seven years earlier, immediately after Appius turned me, the Queen was still in Rome with her son, but she quickly returned following Julius Caesar's assassination on the Senate floor. She pressed for young Caesarion's rights as Caesar's son and heir from the safety of her own kingdom, and there were many bloody battles across the Republic as various factions fought for control.

Appius and I were glorious in the night battles. The irony that my immortality required the death of others was not lost on me, and we feasted on freshly slain blood. When none was available, I stole slave boys from their beds, pitiful little creatures, and fed from them, knowing I was saving them from a fate far worse than a swift and gentle death. Child-blood tasted so much better than anything else; its sweetness was a pleasure unlike anything I had known as a human, and there were times I'd find boys even when I didn't need to.

When Appius and I met the Queen, presented to her as rich Roman citizens backing her position, I intended to kill her. I wanted to hate the woman who stole my Master from his wife and his country, but when I met her, I was in awe. Described by many as "vibrant" rather than a great beauty, she was wise, intelligent, a natural leader, and a good mother. History would remember her as a beautiful temptress who brought the downfall of powerful men, but that was an insult to her greatness. Her gender was her only obstacle to ruling the known world, but the only people who questioned her ability were those never in her presence.

"Godric, is it true?" she asked.

I nodded. "Yes, my lady. Marc Antony is dead." She stopped breathing and collapsed on the floor. I flashed to her side. "My lady?" Her face was twisted in horror and despair, and I sat with her for a long moment, but then she pushed me away and rose, standing before me like the goddess she'd professed herself to be.

"Thank you for bringing me the news. I wouldn't have believed it possible, but you would never deceive me."

"No, my lady," I said, kneeling before her once again.

"Do you know Octavian's plans? Will he allow me an honorable death, as befitting my status?"

"Marc Antony scorned his sister for you; he wants revenge." She nodded. "He'll want you captured alive, and he'll return to Rome with you as a spoil."

She laughed, and it was cold and almost frightening. "Yes. A spectacle to amuse the masses…" She stopped pacing and stood very close to me. "He'll desire a long, long life for me, filled with shame and humiliation until the very end. He'll sell tickets to my death-bed." She threw back her head and laughed again.

"My lady?" I repeated.

"What of my children?" she said. "Will they be allowed to live? To rule their rightful kingdoms?"

"I don't know," I honestly answered.

She nodded. "I have two more tasks for you, and once completed, I release you from your vow of service. First, I know of your ability with the elements. Call a snake to you, an asp, and bring it to me."

"My lady?" I said, knowing the asp was the symbol of divine royalty, but also extremely poisonous. She could only desire an asp for one purpose.

"Bring it to me as quickly as possible. And second, promise that you'll bury me with Marc Antony. Don't allow Octavian to desecrate my body."

I nodded, and she dismissed me with her hand. I walked back through the guards and then outside. I stood under the moonless sky and opened my mind to the spirits of the animals. I raised my hands and my face to the sky and felt their life-energy flow through me as I called the asp. Immediately, I felt them respond, and I heard them slithering towards me. When I was surrounded by thirty or so, their lithe, dry bodies curled harmlessly around my feet, I selected the most beautiful, a magnificent female horned viper. Her eyes were wide-set on her head, and her horns like a crown, befitting for the death of a Queen.

I sent the rest away, and as I cradled the snake in my arms, I decided to leave the desert. I was tired of the bleached, moon-lit sand and the oppressive heat. I would not fight for Octavian, and I would not fight for Rome. Octavian would kill the Republic as surely as knives had killed Caesar. As democracy fell to ruin, I would travel north, back to my people, bringing indiscriminate death to those in my path.

I would go home…

***

"Sheriff," Stan says in his condescending way. He doesn't remove his ridiculous black cowboy hat when he bows, and I briefly consider taking it off his head myself. Maybe some of his hair along with it… But it's not worth it. It's never worth it.

"Stan," I say, blocking the doorway as he towers over me. "It seems you have another problem I must deal with."


	4. Chapter 4

He was here. I could feel him. My blood hummed throughout my body, vibrating me like a tuning fork. Our blood would always sing to one another, echoing in my veins. It was a symphony only I would understand, as I was part composer to the melody. Fighting the urge to call upon the bond, I focused my energy on the men surrounding me. It was inevitable that our paths might cross again. When one was immortal the world became smaller in scope. How ironic that the crossing of our paths would occur in the same country as our initial meeting. It was no coincidence I was here. I found myself inextricably drawn back here anytime the weight of immortality lay on my shoulders. After 1800 years of a God like existence, weariness was bound to intrude. Somehow being close to the start of the happiest time in almost two thousand years eased the questions, and made the weariness bearable with his face in my mind. He was my triumph, my legacy, my one good act in a thousand lifetimes of savagery.

*************************************************************************************

The sounds of battle always held an allure for me. The warrior was ingrained in me and immortality laid out an infinite highway of battles. I could have traveled a path of war for the last 1000 years and had indeed chosen that from time to time. While my body craved the intelligence of combat, a millennium of watching humanity tear each other apart, had still taken a toll on me. Vampires I had met over the length of my new life, had held very little feeling towards the humans they had once been, but I had found myself observing more and more, the species I once was. This night found me in a cave on the western half of England, just outside a small town of Stamford Bridge. Awoken from a strange feeling of meeting my maker, I heard the war cries of the blond giants that had camped on the other side of the ridge. While the need to feed was barely a tickle, watching a battle from a perch high in the trees held infinitely more appeal. Sliding smoothly into the moonlit night, I made my way through the tree line, gliding from limb to limb, yet never disturbing a leaf. Finally reaching a vantage point, I witnessed an unarmed Viking army being pushed back towards the narrow bridge by an organized and powerful Saxon force. Blond giants littered the field, as the only defense they had were shields, helmets and the sporadic spears. Realizing the slaughter happening would not produce any new intelligence in the art of battle, I turned to go and that is when he caught my eye. Standing at least two inches taller than any of the other men, he stood in the middle of the narrow bridge, armed with only an axe and a shield. I stood transfixed as I watched him dance with his axe, felling Saxon man after man. His movements smoothed and choreographed as if his weapon were the partner of his dreams. Dirty and bleeding, he was the most beautiful blond giant I had ever witnessed and in that moment, I knew I would break my vow of never becoming a maker. Transfixed on this ballet of death, I fought the urge to sweep the man away and claim him as my own. Knowing his efforts would prove futile against the onslaught of a much better prepared and armed Saxon army, I waited for opportunity to come to me. Soon enough I watched a Saxon gliding down the river in a barrel, catching himself under the bridge that held my giant. He was growing weary, his dance slowing and than in an instant, a sword thrust up through the laths and into the Viking's side. Crumpling, I watched two Viking men, grab the arms of their last hope and drag him in my direction towards the woods. Cries of slaughter echoing in the background, urged the men deeper and deeper. I followed stealthy through the tree tops, tracing the scent and patiently waiting for the time I knew would come. He was weak, my gentle giant, and he was begging his comrades.

"Go on" he said "I'm finished. Go on"

"No" one said

"Eric" the other replied "You saved our lives hundreds of times. We won't leave you to be eaten by wolves. We'll wait for the end by your side."

"We'll give you a hero's farewell. The Gods wait for you in Valhalla. There will be a party with meat and gold and beer."

"And women? Will there be women?"

"Wherever I am there will always be women" my giant Eric replied and sent a ripple of laughter through the three friends.

Lifting him again they carried on further into the forest. I followed until dawn, digging a grave south of the camp they had set up. Praying to a God who no longer controlled my fate, I asked him to keep the spark in my Eric until night.

********************************************************************************************************

Collecting my winnings, I wondered what he would say when we met. Would he still be angry over my forcing our parting or would he have moved on and found another, content with his estrangement from me? That last thought sent a wave of jealousy coursing through my body, and I knew at that instant I needed to avoid any contact with him tonight. Bidding goodnight to the gentleman at the table, I grabbed my cane and hat and stepped out into the cool London night. As civilization had become more and more civilized, it became easier for us to move among them; Easier to set up homes and businesses for a much longer time, as long as our food source was readily available and easily dismissed. London, England in the 1800's provided such a backdrop. Nightlife provided income and the slums and docks provided nourishment. After 1800 years, I needed to feed very little, so moving among humans became an enjoyable and bearable pastime. Of course glamouring them out of their winnings at hazard was equally enjoyable and London provided a cultural scene like many of the larger European cities. I hated the fashion of course, as I was most comfortable in cotton pants. My short frame did not suit the long tails and intricate folds of the cravats, but fitting in was imperative, and that required sacrifice. I instantly pictured Eric in black tails, waistcoat and ivory cravat. He would look stunning, a blond Adonis waiting to steal the hearts of the willing and unwilling. I was sure he had his fair share of matrons beating a path to his side. While we certainly could not partake of the Tonnish trend of balls, many enjoyments could be found at the gaming hells and men's clubs like Whitehall's. Leaning against the steps, I let the symphony sing quietly through my blood, relishing in his nearness yet refusing to yield to the call.

******************************************************************************************************************************

The night was still, the flames licking the branches as if offering their caress than stealing it back. He lay in a bed of sticks, offered up to his Gods in Valhalla. His body had betrayed him and all that was left was a mind refusing to give into a life without life. The time was near and for the first time in nearly 1000 years, I was buoyant about my existence and what I could offer. A lifetime with this man would be one to embrace, a time without weariness, a time to explore a bond no other could offer him. A choice would be given, as he would have to come freely, but deep down I knew the child I had chosen would embrace his freedom, just as I had over a millennium ago in a Roman street, under the cover of darkness.

"All will be well" his comrade reassured him "Don't be afraid"

"I'm not afraid. I'm pissed off" chided my gentle giant.

Knowing now was my best chance, I lapped the campfire creating a disturbance away from my Eric.

"Who's there? Show yourself" his other comrade demanded.

I darted from my branch, fangs extended, and ripped out his throat. Less than a second had passed and I had leapt to the throat of the other Viking, sending blood spurting in an arc across the fire. Landing gracefully on the edge of my giants' altar, I gazed at him as if seeing sunlight for the first time in a millennium.

"Are you death?" he asked

"I am"

"But you're just a little boy"

Smiling at his attempt to reconcile what he knew to be true with what he saw I replied "I'm not"

"My men" he questioned

"Dead"

"You swine"

Feisty even at his most vulnerable I confessed "I watched you on the battlefield last night. I never saw anyone fight like you."

"I would fight you now if I could"

"I know. It's beautiful"

He was calm even as he faced his end and he was determined to go on his own terms.

"What are you waiting for" he asked "Kill me"

Trying not to sound as desperate as I felt, I offered the choice

"Could you be a companion of death? Could you walk with me through the world…through the dark? I'll teach you all I know…I'll be your father, your brother, your child"

Again trying to shift control to his weakening mind, he demanded

"What's in it for me?"

Keeping it simple and on his terms I offered

"What you love most…Life"

"Life" the Viking pleaded to me and he became my Eric…

*******************************************************************************************************************

The doors opened and I flashed into the shadows at the side of the steps. I watched Eric walk down as if he was some Viking God leading his men to victory. He would always command respect and admiration everywhere he went and once again I fought the urge to call upon our bond. I had asked for this. Eric would have been with me to this day if I had let him, but weariness with my existence and the world surrounding us was infecting him and I could not let the one bright part of my immortality become tainted with my burdens. He begged and pleaded that cold night, snow swirling around his face, as the tears stained his broad cheeks. I was hurting him with my rejection, but destroying him with my disease would have been a far worse torture. I walked away that night 500 years ago convinced I was at a turning point and he would fare far better without me. Looking at my gentle giant now, I grew concerned. He was not a bright spot in the dark London night; he looked hungry and weary, resigned and lonely. He turned left heading towards Grosvenor's Square and I followed at a safe distance curious as to what purpose would be served in the Tonnish neighborhood. He turned into an alleyway leading behind the gardens of some of London's oldest and richest families. Sticking to the shadows I stayed at the entrance of the alleyway watching my child walk with a purpose in his step. Just than a young woman, not more than 18 or 19 came scurrying from the opposite end of the alley. Blond and fair, her hair was piled up on her head in intricate curls. She held handfuls of the silk fabric of her skirts in her hands, trying to run. Continually glancing behind her appearing concerned someone was following her, she never saw Eric till she ran right into him. Rather than burst into hysterics, as women of this period were prone to do, she straightened her spine, looked up into my Eric's face and demanded to know what he was doing out there. In the split second of the strike, I felt my blood hit a cacophony of notes. Pleasure and warmth, desire and need all pushed their way through the bond the three of us now felt. Eric turned at that second staring into the shadows where I stood. He could see me I know, but he dismissed the notion and returned to his blond goddess draped over his arm. I left the alley that night and England the night after, never to return.


	5. Chapter 5

Godric – Chapter 5

You were entering a new chapter in your flight now, one that you would need to forge on your own. I had only wanted freedom from slavery and you, life from death. That last night in London I flew out to one of our favorite spots in the apple field there along the riverbank at Trinity remembering the plague years and us watching the Londoners flee to the fields like rats from a sinking ship, how we spooked the young Isaac that he might never have left his dorm after dark again, instead observing from a window with his telescope.

I had spent many centuries on these islands with you and before with Appius, always watching and listening for the next great battle. Appius and I had fought the Romans and as they had viewed the very place as Hades itself and worse, what better place to fight them. My anger a fuel for what they had done and what they were forcing upon the world. We left vicious signs in our wake that drove up dividing walls, Hadrian sure the Scottish were savage beasts, even still some believe it so. We wore them down till they left in the 5th century and then we traveled northeast back to my home lands again only to follow the warriors back here a few centuries later and to find you.

My years with you, hovering at the edges of the night fires were the best of all, hearing first hand accounts, knowing who was boasting and who believeth in lies, thieving from one side and giving to the next to stir the cauldrons for another battle, we got drunk on the blood of the sinners and the saints alike, we were war, we were death, a double edged sword.

I recalled a night we'd stolen a stash and you got burned on the silver. It frightened you, but once you were recovered we lay in a field under the moon and laughed as never before or after. A bloody tear welled up and sorrow overcast me like a blanket and brought me back into my presence and loss, for I was losing my brother once again. How many times would this occur I'd wondered and even considered lying in the orchard past dawn to end it all. I felt the woman succumb to you as you had to me, my love given away to another. It ached, but I knew the freedom I had sought all those years ago needed to pass on no matter the pains.

Even though I was miles north, a breeze had managed to carry up the sooty fog from the lamp stands of London and I could smell you again. I'd noticed an apple laying on the heaped grasses, bruised and a hole that burrowed deep into its own darkness. The world was changing faster now and all these years leaving treasures for these colleges had funded thousands of great minds and amassed unknowable riches.

Stealing into the library and placing a portion of the special writings the Queen had instructed me to seed into various places and institutions when the times procured them. The colleges were closed and very few remained making a perfect hideout while the fires raged in the city. I placed the ancient manuscripts and Latin translations that I'd kept in a special tomb no man ever knew of or able to reach. And here mankind had fallen over their very own tipping point in the age of enlightenment and still couldn't see the math. Tonight there was one last manuscript and so I quickly retrieved it from a place no scholar or faculty had ever discovered and left it on the doorstep of Mr. Fenton Hort.

In the last few hours of that night I went back south to go into ground at Stonehenge and recalled hearing of the place through the queen and of its significance, it would be my last day sleeping there and the next night I stopped by the farm in Mercia I'd kept up and working, secured a few things and dug up a sword cuff of Anglo Saxon gold and intricately inlaid with blood red garnets for a memento to take, reminding me of my last night with Appius and the loneliness that followed till I met you.

I had dreamt of our journey to Ireland while you were still young, your blood thirst pushed the limits and killed all the leaders fighting at the battle of Clontarf and causing peace to fall upon the region for many years following. Had you ever come to understand the royal bloods you consumed back then or even any implications it caused? It was a gift any father would want to give an only son even with all its hard lessons.

Years later in New Orleans I'd seen a beautiful boy sitting in the library no more than 14 or so. Studious much as I was in youth and built as I in stature and color at that age. An eager yearn for adventure exuded him even if he hadn't a pile next to him as though he would read them all that night. My youthful appearance allowed me to approach him without alarm and sat opposite him across the table. I opened my leather bound journal and finished writing in the last of the pages. This time I signed it Patrick Ervin.

We had both taken turns glancing at the others movements, his curiosity building all the while he fought to focus on his notes from his Dumas, Bulfinch, Doyle and Hawthorne. Burroughs, Lovecraft, London, Kipling, Chesterton, even a copy of a Holy Bible. Each time he referred to them he went to specific pages as though he'd read every one so many times they were committed to memory.

It was empty in the study hall but for us and the evening overseer who'd retired to his private den for a nip of brandy, unable to wait and maybe not return as I could hear his snoring coming from his chair on the other side of the wall. I spoke gently to the boy and complimented him on his choice of literature and inquired if he was writing a book? He replied, "yes sir, a writer is all I wish to be and so I thought it was best to get a good start". Well, I too have done some writing and am charmed by your design, I'd like to find such good fortune that someone like you would be the first to read it and so please except this gift I give to you". His eyes lit up and his heart pounded at the mystery before him and took the leather wrapped pages from my hand, startled by its coolness the scent of his blood pumped up his vessels and veins so tauntingly I nearly lost myself and devoured his whole being. The sound of a door shutting and a man entering caused us to look. A handsome man confidently walked up to the table and said to the boy, "Robert, it's time to go now". Robert beamed at his father, his blood blushing beneath the surface of his skin and said, "meet" and stopped realizing he didn't know my name. I took my right hand that I'd rested on the bankers lamp and hoped his father wouldn't detect the same thing the boy had, firmly shook his hand and said, "pleased to meet your acquaintance, I'm Patrick Ervin". He said if a bit stoically and southern in his drawl, "likewise, Dr. Isaac Howard", I took his cue and bid them both a good evening.

I hungered that night, hungered for you. New Orleans sat like an overflowing bowl of gumbo with its melting pot of worlds Diasporas and foreign tongues. Anything and everything I could want could be had here but you and you were all I ever wanted or needed. I had released you, allowing you to go where you may but I never stopped wanting you. Even then the political climates were changing and vampire were mingling with humans like never before, some spoke of a desire to come out, but little did they know of what would come of that in the years following.

Godric closed his coded journal that was his memoir and last will and testament, Eric would be the only one who could decipher it as it was born from their bonded language. No other beings spoke it and so long as Eric hadn't shared it with another then only the two could understand it leaving Eric to decide what and if anything would be done with the remaining hoards and caches still laying wait in the fields of the world. Money was always easy to come by and never needed, but now things were different and all our investments for the future were becoming investments in human history. In some cases our stashes had been some of the wealthiest lots modern man has gotten to view for all the kings of past melted down the riches of their enemies leaving little trace of the warriors of old. He knew there was a risk that this story might be lost and the fortunes it beheld never giving up an answer if Eric didn't read it and use his key in the coming year.

Despite the noise of the modern world he was interrupted by Isabelle's pacing outside his quarters. "Please come in Isabelle" he spoke towards the closed door. She entered in with her worried face. "What is it?" he asked, knowing full well. Isabelle, with the pleading of a mother in her voice said she wished Godric would take some blood and that she had a fine specimen waiting. Godric asked her to sit down a moment and then told her, "Isabelle, I will feed now, but you have important work to do and your time should not be spent worry about things you know not of. When you get to be half my age you will begin to understand why I rarely feed".

Isabelle's expression lifted and then she apologized, stood up and bowed. As she rose, she stated, "I will send him right in". He was standing by the door as when he watched her walk out the entryway, the young man appeared in her place and entered in without a word. Godric smiled slightly and invited him over to his bench to have a seat. Godric placed his hand on the young mans shoulder and asked for his wrist, the young man complied and offered up his left hand. Godric took it with his other hand and pulled it to his face, smelling his palm and the blood of the young mans ancestors that had drained into this modern vessel, he pierced the flesh between the sinews and as the blood pushed from the wounds, Godric lowered himself to his knees and released the pressure on the mans shoulder causing the blood to rush down his arm. Godric held the wrist to his mouth and drank the blood of a thousand friend and foe. He was soon done and released him unto himself.

The sun was near to rise and Godric retired shortly before daybreak wondering if the young man felt as a slave and secretly wished for freedom. That was all he'd ever wanted, all he'd ever sought and the only thing he'd never really found. Godric released his body to its deadened state as the sun rose through the horizon and an old man flung a newspaper rolled in plastic up the driveway of the compound.

VwVjuiced


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - To Kill a Vampire

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There are few ways an ancient vampire can be brought to a final death: staking, burning, exposure to the sun. A vampire learns how to avoid these dangers, how to hide their kills, how to glamour away all memory of their presence, where to go when the sun rises, how to feed from the humans no one would miss or care about. A vampire learns much about the world of humans. And a vampire that has lived for 1800 years has learned and acquired everything needed to survive. Only a convergence of bizarre circumstances could result in the death of a vampire as old as I was.

By the mid-1800's I had accumulated enough wealth and status to live a comfortable and rewarding life in London. Britain was the major economic and political power of the world and London was its hub. I had a grand home, loyal servants, a secure resting place, and most important to me, a large library. I had brought my library wherever I moved, storing the books until I had established a new home. It grew unwieldy, so I was glad to finally have a home splendid enough to house all my books.

While many of the joys and thrills of the nocturnal life had grown dull, the delight of receiving a new shipment of books never faded. Each book was a doorway into the mind and heart of another person's world. Through books I could experience the life of a virtuous woman, a man ship wrecked on an island, a pirate on the high seas. Instead of just living lifetime after lifetime I was able to live these lives through reading. From chapbooks and elegant belles lettres in the 1530's and 1540's to the modern novels, I devoured the written word. My mind filled with the new thoughts, the new concepts, the new light being cast on human endeavors.

I drained these volumes of their emotions, their adventures, their way of seeing life. Thought had changed, the way one experienced the world had changed, one's very identity had changed due to the power of the written word. Cervantes' 'Don Quixote', Defoe's 'Robinson Crusoe', Richardson's 'Pamela', Shelley's 'Frankenstein', Dickens's 'Oliver Twist', Keller's 'Green Henry', I stayed up night after night reading, learning, growing in understanding.

What could be safer? What could be more secure than sitting in my library, the clock ticking on the mantle, the lamp shining on a page? Yet what could have been more dangerous? As the words and ideas entered my mind I found myself beginning to change. Human life was not just an endless march of hopelessness from birth to the grave. It had value, dignity, and worth. Slowly I began to feel that there was something higher than the physical world, the world of flesh and blood. There was something more, an essence, a vitality, a spark that went out when a human life ended. The words on the pages began to speak to my own experiences.

Lord Byron wrote:

"Words are things; and a small drop of ink,  
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces  
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think."

I began to think. I could no longer dismiss my actions as just another way humans met their inevitable end. I thought most about the children. Starving, diseased, abused, unwanted, grateful for the small presents I brought them; a piece of fresh fruit held in filthy shaking hands, a sweetmeat put between sore crusted lips, I thought I had done well bringing this wretched refuse a few bright moments of pleasure before having my way with them.  
I justified my wanton killing and use of their small bodies with the rationale that they would have died soon anyway, I just brought it to a more merciful and speedy end.

William Shakespeare wrote:

"This above all: to thine own self be true,  
And it must follow, as the night the day,  
Thou canst not then be false to any man."

I saw with clarity that I had not been true to myself. My rationalizations had been self serving. What right did I have to snuff out the tiny flame that burned within these desperate little ones? Could I not have helped them, ended their suffering by bringing them to a better place, used my wealth and influence to house them and care for them? The thought had never crossed my mind.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote:

"As the moths around a candle  
As the bees around the rose,  
As the gnat around a vaper,  
So the spirits group and close  
Round about a holy childhood,  
As if drinking its repose.?"

Holy childhood. I had been drunk from the blood of holy childhood more times than I could count. Their sweet innocence, their immediate acceptance of me, the hugs and kisses coming from their trusting hearts, I had fed on these things as much as their blood. My small stature, my youthful appearance, my knowledge of how to entice them with kindness, food and play, all these things were used to seduce and drain the children I so enjoyed.

Lord Alfred Tennyson wrote:

"How pure at heart and sound in head,  
With what divine affections bold  
Should be the man whose thought would hold  
An hour's communion with the dead."

Their faces began to haunt me. Communion with the dead for me meant legions of children, their large pain filled eyes asking me, "Why? Why did you kill me? Why did you take my innocence and my life?" I had no answer except that I wanted to. I enjoyed it. It pleased me. I wiped my mouth, fastened my pants, and threw down the little body with no more thought than a human casting away an apple core. I began to feel like a monster. I saw myself as depraved, hideous, evil. I could not stand living within my own skin. I writhed in an agony of guilt as one in a fire.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote:

"A drowsiness is stealing over me  
Which is not sleep; for, though I close mine eyes,  
I am awake, and in another world.  
Dim faces of the dead and the absent  
Come floating up before me."

Even my daily death could not hide me from the dim faces of the dead I had killed. Who could help me? Why should I be helped? Who helped all those pitiful children when I had taken their last meager possession, their life? No one had helped them. No one could help me. I was buried under a mountain of dead children.

Victor Hugo wrote:

"There are times when the unknown reveals itself in a mysterious way to the spirit of man. A sudden rent in the veil of darkness will make manifest things hitherto unseen, and then close again upon the mysteries within. ... Those that depart still remain near us - they are in a world of light; but they as tender witness hover about our world of darkness. Though invisible to some they are not absent. Sweet is their presence; holy is their converse with us."

Are the dead in a world of light? Could I, in my world of darkness, contact them and somehow put all my wicked past to rest?

I had the opportunity to meet Madame Blavatsky in 1889. I had read "Isis Unveiled" in 1877 and "The Secret Doctrine" in 1888. They were rambling but thought provoking texts. She claimed she was able to speak with the spirits of the dead. I wanted to know if I could be forgiven. I was able to use my connections and influence, and a sizable donation to her Theosophical Society, to get an invitation to19 Avenue Road for a private consultation. I was told she could use her "spirit guides" to visit the Unseen Universe. I wanted to know if the spirits of the dead I had created could forgive me. I wanted to know what I must do to be released from the chains of remorse, chains that burned and weakened me more than silver.

Naturally I needed to visit with her at night. Madame Blavatsky was not well, I was told by her assistant. I could only have fifteen minutes with the mystic. She had a stuffed baboon in her parlor dressed in wing collar, tail-coat, and spectacles, and holding a copy of 'The Origin of Species' in its hand. She thought Darwin was wrong, a debate in which I had no interest in participating. Aside from the baboon, the parlor was crammed full of the heavy carved furniture and over decorated nick knacks that were in fashion. It smelled like dust, tea, rosewater and, of course, baboon.

The most remarkable thing about Madame Blavatsky were her grey blue eyes. She seemed to see more and discern more than most humans. She immediately knew I was Vampire, yet she was not afraid of me. She invited me to sit and think about the reason I had come. She did not ask me what my question was. Instead she began a low humming sound deep in her ample bosom, her eyes rolling back to expose the whites, her big body swaying as she contacted her spirit guides. I thought it was a clever act, perhaps impressive to humans, but boring and meaningless to me.

"You have come to find a way to repay the debt you owe ......" she intoned in a deep breathy voice. I could smell the cancer in her that would claim her life within a year. "You must contact Benjamin Waugh and support his cause. You can never undo what has been done, but eventually you will discover the time has come for your release. Embrace the light, do not hide in the dark. Cease your evil deeds. Help others. Wait for the day."

Then she shuddered and slumped back in her chair. Her assistant rushed in and told me I must leave now, Madame was exhausted. I saw that she truly was exhausted, her days were numbered. I did not believe she had communed with the dead. Yet I did contact Benjamin Waugh. He ran the London Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. I gave him a large donation, and have continued to do so every year. I support other charities too, and glamour the wealthy to give generously to these causes.

In the end I realized that Madame Blavatsky, genuine mystic or not, had given me the answer I sought. I do not hide from my inner darkness. I have ceased my evil deeds. I help others. Now I must wait for the day I will embrace the light.

Howdy! This was written by eripmav (that's "vampire" spelled backwards) also known as Eros Ashima here and on Turningkey blogspot. I have blended the way Charlaine Harris depicted Godric with the way True Blood depicted him. I hope I have done him justice. Godric, for all his terrible faults, truly did come to the Light eventually.


	7. Chapter 7

Time passed in the way it does for immortals, so different from the oh so brief lives of humans. Madame Blavatsky passed on not long after my visit. I continued in my support of the children, all the while wondering when the time would come that I would meet the final dawn. Inevitably though I found things that continued to interest me in the world and couldn't bring myself to that end. Often, I thought I caught a glimpse of a tall blond man and woman. I still hoped to see him again but fate chose something different for me for now.

After a number of years it was time to leave London, as the explanation of constant good health and an ageless countenance became difficult to defend. My contemporaries were dying and their offspring began questioning my apparent youthfulness, always a dangerous situation for a vampire. My thoughts turned to the new world. The idea of the long passage by boat was frightening, even to me. At the very least I could escape by flight if necessary. I had been learning to feed and not take the lives of the humans who so innocently wandered onto my path. With almost a sense of anticipation, I embarked on yet another chapter in my long, long life.

My ship arrived in the port of New Orleans, April 5, 1885. The city had never really suffered from the results of the War Between the States. It was a bustling, noisy, muddy place of great beauty with a wonderful melding of cultures. My trusty servants had guarded my coffin judiciously and the crossing proved uneventful. I brought only my extensive library with me as I couldn't bear to leave it behind. My solicitor, James Pumphrey, had made arrangements for rooms for us at the newly opened Hotel Monteleone* on Rue Royal. He had also explained to the hotel management the necessity for a suite of rooms for just my coffin. For the right price questions would not be asked and our anonymity was guaranteed.

I had expressed an interest in becoming a planter and desired a large home some ways upriver from New Orleans. It seemed that the privacy afforded by such a situation would be of great benefit to me. It would be a place to contemplate and plan my eventual end. Little did I know that years would pass before I arrived at that final moment of surrender.

My solicitor had made the acquaintance of Duncan Kenner from Louisiana in 1865. Mr. Kenner had traveled to London to solicit funds from the British government to aid the Confederate army. A sugarcane planter, with a plantation not far from New Orleans, Mr. Kenner and my solicitor had corresponded over the ensuing years. He had sold his plantation, "Belle Helene", to a man named Hamish Bond. James had received a missive from Kenner that Mr. Bond wanted to sell the land and home to a buyer with ready cash. He had lived there a short time but had suffered a recent tragedy. . We traveled by steamer to the plantation the next evening. I met with Mr. Bond shortly after our arrival. Strangely he brought to mind the character of Rhett Butler who I would see many years later in a movie entitled , "Gone With The Wind". A bear of a man with a booming voice who was subdued due to the loss of his wife, Amantha. I fell in love with the plantation immediately. Standing on the second gallery, I could see the Mississippi flowing gently towards the Gulf of Mexico, a twin row of live oaks led up to the front of the house. The house, while small by plantation standards in the south, was majestic in design. Twenty-four columns stretched across each side of the house. A large gallery on both the ground floor and the second level made for wonderful viewing of both the river and the sugarcane fields. To the rear was an orderly row of quarters, now houses for the cane workers that lived on the plantation. Further out but still visible from the gallery stood the stables. Being a great horseman, Mr. Bond had a fine stable of Arabians. He was willing to part with a number of them. Most animals were terrified of vampires but horses were easily glamoured. I had often enjoyed a moonlight ride and was looking forward to a ride upon the levee as soon as our business was concluded. Mr. Bond had been informed as to my special "medical" condition that limited my exposure to sunlight and the inability to consume whole food. He was as anxious as I was to complete the transaction so that he could make his way to Scotland and leave the place that had been a source of both great happiness and great tragedy. While signing the papers that James had drawn up for us, I felt a twinge of something. Was it a premonition of what was to come?

During the months that followed I found myself content. The nights were lovely with a soft warmth and breezes from the river. I had to travel long distances to feed, but with my choice of stallions to ride and the ability to travel by air it was not too tedious. The cane workers, ironically enough, wore Spanish silver dimes around their necks to protect them from the "hoodoo". So feeding from them was not an option, perhaps not a good option regardless! One evening while strolling my gallery I heard the approach of a horse. As he came closer I saw a magnificent white stallion, reminiscent of the horses I had seen in the days of Alexander the Great. While it was difficult to tear my eyes from the horse, what was on his back was even more wonderful, a young man, blond, blue- eyed and so similar to Eric. Much smaller in stature but beautiful none the less. I had been alone for so long, my heart, which didn't beat, leapt in my chest. Breath that I didn't have froze in my lungs. He stopped just below me and looked up. It was a moment that would last forever in my mind.

"Good Evening Sir, my name is Garrett Wentworth III, and I was told you have a superb Arabian herd. I am looking to breed my stallion and wondered if you would be interested?" he said.

"Please Mr. Wentworth, come in and we will discuss the matter further", I answered trying not to appear too eager. I wanted only to be closer to him, to feel his essence, his blood rushing through his body. He dismounted quickly and entered the lower part of the house. I met him in the parlor where Jess, one of my house servants, had seated him.

"Mr. Wentworth, I am Godric Crawford,(which is the surname I had been using since arriving in Louisiana), and am very pleased to make your acquaintance. I think your stallion would sire many a good horse if we come to an agreement." I wanted him with a fierce longing and desire that confused me. I had seen so much, done so many things that I regretted, and yet there was something so fresh, so new about him that I found it irresistible. I wanted only to touch his body, revel in his blood, feed until I could no more. I walked slowly towards him, knowing that I could use glamour but not wanting to trick him in that way. The look in his eyes was wary. He wasn't sure of me yet. His lips were curved upwards in a slight smile and what beautiful lips they were. I could feel them on my skin tracing a pattern down my body leaving fire erasing the coldness I normally felt.

"Please call me Garrett," he said. He began to blush and I smelled the fragrance of his blood coursing through his veins. It only served to incite me further. I wasn't sure I could contain myself. The desire I felt for him was overwhelming. I didn't understand this feeling as it had been so long since I had felt anything for another. Feeding yes, but that was merely a requirement. This was something different, a sudden knee buckling want, that ate at me as if I wasn't well fed. To touch him would be heaven, to feed from him sublime. It was all I could do to remain where I was. He seemed to sense the danger or excitement coming from me, and his breathing quickened, his blush intensified and he began to tremble.

"Do not be frightened young one, I will be very gentle," I said as I strode closer to him. His eyes grew larger but he did not back away. I touched his cheek and the sensation almost brought him to his knees, gently I lowered him to the floor. He reached for me and brought my face to those lips , those lips that held the nectar of the gods. I felt that touch in my groin bringing an instant hardness and a spurt of liquid the feeling was so intense. In my mind I could almost feel those lips on my hardness, the softness of them enclosing my length, the warm wetness of his mouth covering all of me. Control was something I was rapidly losing. I tore his waistcoat from his body, my fangs erupted from my gums and I sunk them into his chest above the beautiful pinkness of his nipple. His body bowed beneath me and I dared to glance into his face. He was not terrified, a look of rapture glowed from his countenance. The taste of his blood made me drunk, something was very special about it. I could not stop now, I turned him in my arms kissing him the whole time, my hardness painfully pressed against my pants. Softly I nuzzled his neck as he moaned beneath me. I ripped his pants from his body and did the same to mine. Licking my way down his back I wondered at the wisdom of this action. But the peach fuzz on his skin only drew me closer, my hand closed over his erection, oh the silky softness of the tip, the little drop of liquid splendor that filled my palm as I caressed him. My fangs erupted again and I bit down on the perfect globe of his buttock, he jerked in my hand and a fountain of warm juice flowed from him over my fingers. As his body relaxed I used those fingers to caress his crease, sliding them into his opening. He responded by lifting his hips and pushing back to me, carefully I eased my self towards him. Slowly, inch by inch I pushed inside him. The tightness of him surrounded me, I almost swooned with the pleasure of it. I couldn't move, I was frozen with need, faintly I heard his voice, " Please Godric, please". He began to move, my hips following his as he bucked against me. I grabbed his waist and held him still as I pumped into him, only once had I felt this way, only once had I felt that the gods had smiled upon me in my moment of need. I felt my release only seconds away and I leaned over him and sunk my teeth into that area of the neck and shoulder that is so sensitive, I heard him scream and felt him release again as the walls gripping me throbbed and sucked until I lifted my head and we were screaming in unison. I came to myself sometime later with him curled against my side sleeping. Dawn was near and I needed to retreat to my coffin. I kissed him softly without awakening him and dressed with what remained of my clothes. I made my way to the kitchen to find Jess and instruct him on what to do for Garrett when he woke. I felt content in a way that I had not felt for many years. The years apart from Eric no longer stretched in front of me as a pain filled void. For the first time in decades I had something to look forward to. Well , we would see what tomorrow would bring.

*I took writer's liberty here as the Monteleone didn't open until a few years later.

For those of you old enough to remember hope you caught my references to Hamish Bond/Clark Gable in "Band of Angels" and Godric Crawford.

Also Duncan Kenner really did own Belle Helene/Ashland until 1885. He really did go to London to get money from the British for the Confederacy. It is currently owned by the Shell Oil Corp. It really was a working sugar cane plantation.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a late winter 1945 and the snow shone even under the moonless sky of the Lapland province of Finland. Silent reflections moved across the glacial surface; gunfire erupted from one hillock and men fell dead upon another until the silence fell, broken only by the occasional moan of pain or quiet plea for release. Then the presence Godric knew was with him at this scene of men and their folly, emerged carrying a wounded man in his arms and topping the Lapland hillock where the Finns had been stopped by the German ambush, he disappeared from view. Godric traced quickly to a hidden spot just beyond the first hill and took in the all too familiar sight of the slaughter of war. Nearly two millennium of war he had been witness to and still they fought, still they killed in numbers far greater than any taken by all of Godric's kind.

Moving through the field of slaughter, Godric saw the tall, slender frame of his child, the delight of his existence and the reminder of his degradation and evil. Silently Eric moved among the dead and wounded when suddenly a figure erupted over the hill and began firing on Eric who had the man in his hands before the bullets had reached the spot where he stood. In a blink his lips fell back into the all too familiar death rigor and his fangs tore at the throat of the soldier ripping the life from his body and casting the lifeless form aside.

Turning once again to the many still or moaning forms around him he stopped for an instant, glancing at the spot where Godric stayed hidden even from Vampire sight, but then turned to the task at hand. Quickly passing by the bodies he knew at once were already without life he approached those near death determining no hope for survival he ended their misery with a quick hint of glamour followed by a deadly twist of the neck he brought them to peace. To those with hope glimmering in their cells he offered glamour followed by blood; mending them just enough to keep them alive until they could be found and returned to the rear for medical care. Once finished he picked up a radio phone and raised their headquarters in a perfect Finnish voice giving their exact position and requesting immediate medical evacuation with assurances that the enemy had been subdued at this site, with any survivors having fled into the night.

His goal accomplished, Eric retreated to the shadows of a cave in the snow clad hillside to wait out the arrival of the medics; without raising his head or his voice he spoke to the shadows, "Sire, I beg you, please join me here while we wait out assistance for these human fools below us. Please do not disappear into the night again as you have done so often before in London at the turn of the nineteenth century and in France in the trenches of the so called Great War that was to end all wars; it seems where ever there is death and human ignorance in full glory, there I sense you but never find you, never see your eyes in which I find my rest or hear your voice in which I find my long fled soul."

Godric was silent, staring across the glittering snow clad field, then, before he realized it his beautiful child Eric towered before him and his arms longed to embrace him once again. "Oh, my child, I have longed to speak to you, to touch you, to once again beg your forgiveness for this endless path of pain I bequeathed to you so many centuries ago. I have vowed repeatedly never knowingly to cross your path again, and yet I have broken it my vows over and over, always drawn by my love for you and the joy you bring to this worthless shell of mine. I know that wherever there are men in combat I will find you and wherever there are the destitute and besotted there also I would find you and these places I vowed to avoid. Yet over and over I find myself to be drawn to these places with the hope of finding you and seeing you just one last time. I am a fool Eric, my child, an ancient fool who was turned too young to this life to have any sense and never matured enough to overcome my boyhood crush on your beautiful face and body; forgive me son and I let me go to renew my vow to leave you in peace once again." With that Godric dropped his eyes from Eric's face and almost traced away when a hand on his shoulder stopped him and slowly turned him once again. "Would you leave your child hungry in this forsaken terrain with nothing but the dead and wounded around to feed upon? Do you turn yourself so cruelly from the one you created without a moments comfort offered?" Godric tilted his head and unwillingly allowed his eyes to be dragged up Eric's bare chest to those green pools of enchantment that had captured his love nearly a millennium ago and realized that his offspring was indeed unusually pale and gave off a an aura of depression and weakness.

"Child, what are you doing to yourself, why have you not fed with all this death around you? Why did you not drink from the attacker you stopped on the hill; why did you tear open his throat to let him feed his life's blood to the snow? I do not understand." Godric demanded. "Nor do I, responded Eric, nor do I but it seems that the more human carnage that surrounds me the more the product of their bodies sickens me. When I become too severely weakened I will drink a little from the dying to hasten their way but even that sickens me and I stop short of satiating my need." Eric shook his head and turned from Godric, "It could be perhaps, that I have inherited this phobia from my maker who chooses to come near to starvation before selecting the most wretched sinners to feed upon." Turning to face Godric now and looking him squarely in the eyes he demanded a response and without a movement of his body, prohibited escape with his presence.

"I have lived too long, drunk from too many veins, left too long a trail of dead bodies behind me that clings to my existence like a chain of iron. I cannot continue living like this and yet I cannot bring myself to end it because you still live. It is that burden my son, that made me force you to leave and made me take a vow never to see you again. I have never deserved the love and devotion you showed to me; your monster creator, your mentor of horror. An abomination created another abomination and the child follows the sire's footsteps to hell and you want me to rejoice; to be proud of what I have done? I cannot Eric, I cannot!" Godric turned and again would have traced away but once more that hand of ice lay upon his shoulder and stopped him…."Father, one last favor, I sense there are many among those who led the ambush on these, noble Finnish soldiers, who still have life within them, just beyond the hill over there, under the overhang. Will you go and nourish yourself as you have not done in many years? Will you do this for me and then return here and nourish your son in turn one last time? Will you do me that one favor sire, will you?" Eric pleaded with his eyes and voice.

That voice, that touch, Godric could not resist, it was for this reason he had tried so diligently not to make contact, but he was lost now, no longer able to resist. Swiftly he traced across the snow to the hiding place of several severely wounded Germans who lay in an alcove, barely clinging to life. Choosing one soldier, Godric sank his fangs into his neck quickly pulling nourishment into his body. When the heart stilled he cast the body aside and then picked up another and drank again. He drank and drank until he could drink no more, he had fed more deeply than he had in more than a century and his body ached with the fullness. He looked around at the several bloodless bodies and gathering them up he traced to the nearby woods where he literally tore their bodies limb from limb to give the impression that wild animals had fed upon the lifeless bodies and torn them to pieces, leaving them bloodless.

Returning to Eric's side, he found that he had retreated deeper into the cave. " Come father", Eric's voice led him forward, "the sun rises soon and this will make a safe refuge for us through the daylight hours and I long to spend one more day in your arms". Godric was swiftly at Eric's side and they descended into an interior cave well below the surface, a welcome refuge indeed. Once in a comfortably flat spot, Eric turned and reached forward to stroke the side of his face; "please sire, remove your attire that I may gaze again on your beautiful tattooed body that I so missed; and I will do the same". Swiftly Eric removed his trousers and shoes, which is all he had been wearing as he explained, it was just a waste of time to wear a shirt when he went among the wounded and dying soldiers as he always had to burn the blood covered clothes when he was done. Godric followed suit and settled to the rocky cave floor, the bone chilling cold of the stone and the lack of breathable air this deep within the earth being of no concern to either of them. Eric sank down beside him and without hesitation followed the vein that traversed his maker's chest to where his heart once beat and began to feed. Instinctively, Godric's hand supported Eric's head, his fingers interlaced through his blond hair, and pressed him lovingly to his vein. Eric fed slowly keeping his fangs inserted to prevent the premature closure of the punctures and also wanting to slow the blood flow in order to prolong the experience that he had so missed. There was no one else being, living or dead, that meant as much to Eric as his creator and although all vampires were tied through blood to their maker Eric and Godric's relationship defied all models in its closeness.

As he fed, quite naturally desire rose within Eric his cock hardened and rose between their bodies. Responding to the call of this new need, Eric gently withdrew his fangs from Godric's chest licking clean the punctures as they rapidly closed then with blood still staining his mouth he found his sires lips and kissed him deeply, forcing open Godric's lips and inserting his tongue. Passionately he caressed Godric's tongue and fangs as they slipped down under the arousal of Eric's kiss and the press of his sex between them. Godric moaned and clasped Eric's body to him and Eric responded by reaching down to enfold Godric's engorged shaft in his hand. Slowly, Eric pulled his lips away from his maker sweetness, dropped his head and took every inch of Godric's sex into his mouth, tasting once again the sweetness of the boy and the pleasures of the man. In all the years of Eric's existence, Godric was the only male who could give Eric this much pleasure because he was the only man he truly loved and found desirable and so he reveled in that pleasure once again. The hours of daylight passed and Eric indulged Godric's every fantasy and he in turn did the same for his child. The love between them fired the passion and bound them with a love far beyond that of maker and child.

As night time fell they moved apart and, donning the clothes they had with them they moved upwards towards the entrance of the cave. There Eric reached out a hand and stopped his sire, turning him to face him and forcing his face up so that their eyes met, he spoke in a deep, urgent whisper, "promise me this is not the end yet, promise me that we will meet again in another time and place. I have learned it is useless of me to try to make you understand how much I love you and how beautiful you are, especially in comparison to these mindless, killing humans you seem to admire. To the depth of my being it saddens me to know that you despise my existence because you hold yourself responsible for my creation and that thought is what drives you to isolation and destruction" abruptly Eric dropped his hand and his head. "Oh no, my child," Godric gasped, "I do not despise your existence, how could I, I love you; you have been the star in my night sky that guides me and inspires me to keep on moving. Oh, my child, please forgive me if I have made you feel unloved in any way. What can I do to convince you of this; what do you want Eric, tell me and it is yours."

"When this dreadful war is done", he answered, " as I am sure it soon will be, come with me to the land of the inevitable winners; come with me to America where we can easily lose ourselves in the return of all the soldiers, and start something new. I once visited one of our kind over there in a place called New Orleans; he was a rather melancholy fellow named Louie but he relayed a great love for what he called the South of America and recommended it as a good place for Vampires to make their way. Promise me that you will come to America with me and we will set up an empire for ourselves."

Godric looked into those beautiful eyes and drew Eric's head down so that he could place a gentle kiss on his loving lips. Pulling away he looked up and with a smile, sighed and nodded his head yes in agreement; "America it is child, when the war is over, America it will be and we will start once again; one more time, for the sake of love" and turning, he disappeared into the night.

Eric and Godric are the property of Charlaine Harris and True Blood and I thank them for allowing me to play....

My title for this chapter is: Eric & Godric: A Love Story I had fun and hope you do too. whitefield1


	9. Chapter 9

eripmav

Godric's Journal - December 31, 1899 - The Lost Boy

Despite what had been written in penny dreadfuls, the life of a vampire is not a ghoulish one, at least not for a vampire such as I was at the turn of the century. By living carefully, the clever use of aliases, and finally settling in that most civilized of cities, London, the dawn of the 1900's found me living a carefree life with more social invitations than I could satisfy.

I was rumoured to be the sufferer of severe migraine headaches, making me sensitive to light. I started this rumour myself to account for my absence during the day. A medical doctor in my employ validated this diagnosis, a diagnosis made without ever examining me. A little glamour and a monthly cheque was all that was needed to maintain his cooperation.

I say carefree, but of course that is an exaggeration. I was just beginning to experience the faintest ray of hope that there might be redemption for me if I devoted my energies and resources to doing good among humans. I went out most nights, not for selfish reasons, but to see where my efforts might be most useful to relieve the suffering and want so many humans experienced.

The squalor, filth, disease, misconduct and horror to be found among the poor and degenerate classes does not bear describing. My tiny efforts might not make much of a difference, but if was my fervent hope that they might bring some infinitesimal degree of relief. It did me much good to help where I could. I focused my efforts mainly on children, while never doing anything to harm or frighten them. If a vampire, already once reborn from the grave, could be said to have yet a third rebirth, that would be my state of mind in late December 1899.

New Year's Eve at the turn of the millennium was a major social occasion. Balls and parties were planned in all the great houses, each one determined to outdo the others in splendor and extravagance. I had a six inch thick stack of beautifully engraved invitations, many of them from families with an eligible daughter. My obvious wealth and mysterious origins aroused a great deal of curiosity, and my unmarried status engendered hope in the breasts of mothers who wished their daughters to marry well. I immediately eliminated those invitations for obvious reasons.

Finally I settled on one costumed ball at the Brandt residence. They had no eligible children and no plans to try and dominate my social life. They were connected to several charities I was considering for my donations and I wanted to get a first hand look at what their character and demeanor was. I was a shrewd judge of character, and if that failed, I was able to glamour anyone I could get alone for a few moments. One way or another I would have my answer by night's end.

A costume for the evening was no problem. I had worn so many different styles of clothing over the last 1900 years I would have been comfortable in anything. I settled on a brown homespun tunic, brown tights, a wide belt and pointed flat heeled suede boots. I had my hair lightened for the evening and I put blue around my eyes.

The lighter hair color, the impish clothing, and the improvement in the unrelenting guilt I had been feeling over my past life gave me a more youthful appearance than usual. I needed to wear a long sleeved knitted green shirt under the tunic to cover my tattoos and brand. Nothing like them had been seen by anyone in the British Isles for over a thousand years.

The ball turned out to be, as expected, tedious and unrewarding. I did get Mr. Brandt, dressed like Henry the Eighth, to step aside in the garden with me to discuss a large donation I was considering. While I had him in the cold pale moonlight I glamoured him and learned, to my disappointment but not to my surprise, that his fund raising efforts were mainly to benefit himself and Mrs. Brandt. I was as cynical and jaded as someone observing human nature can be, so I did not react with anger. I did plant the suggestion that he and Mrs. Brandt would be happier in a small cottage so the proceeds of his lavish estate could be distributed to the needy.

Mrs. Brandt, elaborately costumed like Marie Antoinette, asked for my help in the pantry. Once she got me alone in the secluded room she proceeded to fondle my genitals and place my hand on her heaving bosom. She kept telling me how young I seemed, how delightful I was, how she could show me the ways of love.

She told me she was experienced in the sensual arts, which I didn't doubt, but when she tried to place my unwilling hand between her sweaty thighs I had enough of her lechery. I glamoured her to discover that she routinely took advantage of the youthful boys their charity "helped" with whatever small portion of the donated funds was allocated for that purpose. This reflection of my own sexual misdeeds enraged me, and if I had not vowed to never kill a human again I would have dispatched her on the spot.

I did glamour her to experience horrible cramping pains and loose bowels whenever she looked with desire upon a young man. When she awoke from her glamour the sight of me sent her running to her privy pot. I smiled with satisfaction when I, using my very keen vampire hearing, heard her moans of pain in her bedroom as she strained trying to relieve herself, squatting on her chamber pot like the loathsome toad she was.

Having satisfied myself the Society for the Edification of the Young was nothing but a swindle, I took my leave, smirking to myself when my host apologized that the hostess was "indisposed". As soon as I could I took to the sky, feeling the icy winter air rushing through my hair and over my skin as a blessing after the stuffy indoors and the suffocating press of party goers. The stars twinkled above as they had since I was a human child. I always found the sight of them to be reassuring.

As I flew I saw a large third floor window open and a big black and white shaggy dog looking out. I lightly entered the house while reassuring the dog with the special way I had of communicating with animals. The beast licked my hand then went in the corner and laid down. The large room was a children's bedroom and playroom, filled with toys, books, and the quiet breathing of the three sleeping children.

Each had a little bed, each held a stuffed toy, and their angelic faces had slight smiles plumping their rosy cheeks. I had spent so much time of late with the downtrodden, the poor, the very dregs of society, it was amazing to me to see these beautiful healthy loved children sleeping so peacefully in their clean beds. My eyes drank in the sight of them without an impure thought.

Suddenly a smallish man with a broad brow and modest mustache appeared with a lamp. He saw me and said, "You, boy, what are you doing here?" He spoke in a whisper so as not to awaken the children. He had a Scottish accent.

I had no answer for him, so I looked down at the ground. He came closer. "Boy, how did you get in here?" His tone was not hostile or angry, merely curious and astounded to find me in the nursery.

I still did not answer him and I turned to go. I did not want to glamour him because he might suffer some damage from it. Most did not, but occasionally a human with an exceptionally weak will was hard to rouse, or remained dazed for quite some time. He might be the sole caretaker of these precious children on this New Year's Eve. I did not want to risk dulling his senses.

"What is your name, boy?" he asked in a kind gentle voice. I looked down. On a small round wooden play table I saw an illustrated children's book about a calico cat entitled "Pitter Pat" by Wendy Watson.

"Pitter Pat," I said whimsically, making my whispered voice sound soft and youthful.

"Peter Pan?" the man asked, making sure he heard what I said. I nodded, as it didn't make any difference what he believed my name to be.

"Well, Peter Pan, how did you get in here? Did you fly through the window?" he asked in a joking tone.

"I did," I answered him truthfully.

"I see," he said as if he gave my words weight. "And why are you here? Did you lose something?"

"I did," I entered into the playful mood this man brought with him, "I lost my shadow." I turned to face him. We really were the same height.

After a moment I asked him, "What might your name be?"

He said, "I am J. M. Barrie."

"Are these your children?" I asked him, feeling a certain rapport with him.

He chuckled, "I care for them as if they were my own, but no, these are the children of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur and Sylvia Llewelyn Davies. Their names are George, John and the little one is named Peter, just like you."

One of the children stirred so we moved to the far end of the nursery where our conversation would not rouse them. He sat on a large toy chest and I sat in a little blue rocking chair. I smelled chalk, cocoa, and shortbread cookies. I saw a wooden train set piled in a box.

A handsome cab pulled by a tired horse clomped past in the street below. New Year party goers coming home, no doubt. I heard singing and laughter from the cab's occupants. Auld Lang Syne, I think the tune was called, a Scottish song.

"Where are you from, Peter Pan?" he asked me. He seemed glad to have some company, no matter how unconventional our meeting might be. He set his lantern on the floor, casting weird shadows on the wall and ceiling.

I tried to think of an answer. I wasn't from anywhere, not anymore. "I am from Never Never Never Land," I said. This was the closest to the truth of any answer I could invent. His presence affected me in an odd way. I felt playful and creative and open with him. I sensed no danger in the man, just an innate innocent goodness. I wished he ran a charity.

"I see, and how old are you?" he asked in a kind voice. He was probably thinking I was one of the hoards of homeless street urchins looking for a warm place to rest this frigid night.

"I am nearly two thousand years old," I told him. The truth was so unbelievable that I could speak it without fear it might be believed. I rocked a little in my small chair until it squeaked.

"And yet you are still just a boy," his eyes twinkled with merriment at our playful banter. "Would you not have grown old and gray by now?"

"No, I never age." I said. I felt the first tickle of dawn approaching and knew I should take my leave.

"It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Barrie. I must leave now." I told him, standing up from my low seat.

"Will you fly out the window?" he asked me with a smile, standing too.

"Yes. I will head towards the second star to the right, and then straight on till morning."

"Do you have any family, Peter, any friends?" he asked, genuine concern warming his voice.

"Oh yes, there are many of us lost boys around. We help each other out." I was thinking of a certain big blond Viking. Suddenly I missed him so much I felt pain in my unbeating heart. A new millennium, a new start.

I put my finger to my lips in a shush motion, then I walked silently to the third floor window and stepped out, standing still on the thin air. Mr. Barrie came to the window, his eyes huge with wonder. "My sweet God, you really can fly," he breathed.

I took off, heading for the second star to the right.


	10. Chapter 10

The moon hung low and heavy in the night sky, and I was filled with memories of the past, looming heavy upon me. Leaning back in my chaise, surrounded by my garden, I remembered my birth with Appius so long ago in Rome. There was still a small glimmer of the bond in my being. I knew he was alive and well but unable to detect where and had no interest to seek him out. I smelled the sweet jasmine and smiled, rising up to walk along the flower lined path.

My plantation, Belle Helene, was my refuge in this chaotic modern world. I had witnessed so many civilizations rise and fall through my long life, all convinced they would never topple under their own weight. Maybe these United States of America would be different as I'd never experienced a country with such riches and power.

I'd flown to my beloved plantation tonight to say goodbye to this place I'd called home for so many years. Even with my current duties as Sheriff of Texas, I continued to visit, relishing in the quiet. I strolled through the garden as my mind moved back through the years to another time in this place. When I'd waited for my child to return to me after the war.

I was remembering how I'd felt then, the moment I'd sensed Eric, somewhere over the vast ocean moving slowly towards me. A telegraph had arrived weeks ago, telling me he would be landing in San Francisco. Though the message was cryptic, I knew he was traveling with the many troop ships that crossed the vast Pacific. Eric had written countless letters detailing his travels through the war. How the Russians extracted their revenge from the Germans for the millions killed in their motherland. How the allies descended upon Germany like a pack of dogs, each nation taking a sector and dividing the country further. Maybe that was the only way to free them and set them on a different path. Didn't the human God command that every man, woman, and child be killed by a flood, except his chosen few?

Through his letters, I knew Eric had moved across Europe to Japan and further out into the islands where the fighting was still raging. Eric had assumed another identity to blend in with the American troops. Some faceless American soldier who'd died in an alley of Berlin while trading cigarettes for favors from a woman. Eric had picked up his dog tags and glamoured his commander to transfer him to a unit that did not know him. The commander had sent word ahead to his new officer that Eric was with an elite group of assassins working with military intelligence. The times were chaotic and there were many special operations happening so that no one questioned his mission.

How I cherished each letter that arrived, reading them over and over. When the bombs dropped on Japan, finally ending the war, I went to a local priest. He was old and kind and suspected my true nature but accepted me as one of God's creatures.

"Father," I asked, "Why does your God allow such death?"

He smiled in a weary way and shook his head. "Because he can," he said. The old priest walked away with heavy shoulders, and I realized there would be no answers for me here. I pitied the old priest as his faith was slipping from him, and he was unable to console another.

I left the Church, never to return, and felt a burden ease from me. How I'd wallowed in my self pity, lamenting the few humans I'd killed. Hadn't I held them in my arms, cradling them in their last moments, giving them peace as they slipped from this world? Whatever sins I committed would be nothing compared to this new age. If these humans were created in God's image, then he was not someone I hoped to appease or be redeemed by.

Eric had stayed in Japan and watched over the rebuilding of that small, proud island. Finally, he was making his way towards me, writing that he no longer wanted to be apart from me. Pleading that I must not refuse him, and I knew I would not.

The memory faded and I was back, once again on my garden path, stopping to savor the scent of a rose. I chided myself for being so sentimental. I was like an old man relishing and replaying memories of youth in his mind. I fought to stay in the present, but I felt a desire so strong for my sweet Lily that I drifted back to another time in this garden not so long ago.

Looking down the garden path, I remembered a night much like this in the 1950s when everything was changing. I felt warmth fill me knowing that my Eric would be with me in this new country where so many sought to create their own future. The night breeze felt warm and soft against my skin and assailed me of her sweet scent. She was walking in the moonlight again, following the path to my gardens.

Through the trees she glided towards me with her hair flowing thick and long down her slim shoulders and framing her beautiful blue eyes. She wore the slim pants that were so fashionable for young women in this time. How I missed the long flowing dresses but had long ago learned to easily accept the styles from era to era.

Lily was like a firefly in the night; her skin glowed with life, beckoning me to her. She'd started coming here after her father's return from the war. He was an injured fighter pilot who'd been burned after a crash landing over Italy. The morphine they'd given to relieve his pain had caused more harm than his wounds. Though he'd tried to shake the addiction, he could not and was caught in an endless circle. I had gone one night and tried to glamour him, but it was pointless. I could not break his need, and soon I knew I must release him from his misery.

I was too lost in my own thoughts to notice, at first, but then I saw the bruise on her cheek and went to lift her chin. She averted her eyes but finally raised them up to meet mine. Her eyes, always so filled with light, were dim and filled with shame. I embraced her soft body and stroked her long hair.

"Your father?" I asked.

"He didn't realize it was me. He kept saying my mother's name. He made me . . ." Lily's voice drifted away as sobs wracked her body.

"Shhh," I said trying to comfort her. I knew her mother had died years ago and left her alone and waiting for her father to return from the war. "Come with me, my Lily." She was so light as I picked her up, carrying her into my home. I glamoured her and reverently slipped off each piece of her clothing. When she was bare before me I saw her shame and cried at her feet. Her father had raped her. My little Lily who had never known a man's touch had dried blood on her soft thighs. I cleansed her body and laid her in my soft bed, pulling the covers up around her.

"Sleep now, my Lily." I waited until her breathing took on the even rhythm of sleep and closed the oak door quietly behind me. That was the night I killed her father and released him from his pain. He knew what he had done to his daughter. The drug had finally cheated him of the one last thing he cared for in this world.

"I thought . . . she looks so like her mother. . . I only wanted some comfort." His pain filled eyes begged to be released from the agony he felt. There was a gun by his side on the bed. I glamoured away the pain and lifted the gun to his head. I could not drink from his tainted blood and pulled the trigger.

I had loved her and she me, my little Lily.

My beloved Eric arrived in 1952. Lily and I went to meet him on the raucous docks of San Francisco. Soon this port was to bring in the new age of the sixties, but now it was filled with soldiers eager to return home.

Eric was surprised by my human and the love of life she inspired in me. We traveled down the coast, spending a few years in an area called Big Sur.

"You have bonded with her?" Eric asked, turning his face into the sea breeze.

"Yes." I paused to collect my thoughts. "She is my beacon, my connection to this time."

"You love her?" Eric did not try and cover his astonishment.

I raised my hand to his cheek and ran my fingers down to his shoulder. "My child, embrace the beauty in this world. Haven't you witnessed enough pain?"

Eric moved back from the surf and walked into the sand, sitting to look out over the ocean. I knew he was confused by my actions now. How many centuries had I hid from him? How could I explain what I saw in Lily's father's eyes that night? I would not be the destruction of my own child. If I must bend and reshape myself to this time, then I would.

"I feel there will come a time when our existence will be made known to all humans. The old ways of hiding cannot be sustained. You have seen what they are capable of now. Scientists and engineers have replaced our old gods. These men are driven to rise and fly higher than anything we can imagine."

Eric sat in silence continuing to gaze out in the distance.

"I want you to move among the humans. Create something of your own in this world. Learn to adapt and survive amongst them." I hoped he would take my words to heart.

"Is that an order?" Eric turned to me with a raised eyebrow.

"No. It is the fervent wish of a father to his only son. I want you to thrive and find happiness here. We have each roamed too long alone. I was wrong to force you away from me."

"You do love Lily then?" A smile creased Eric's lips.

"Yes. Promise me something," I asked.

"Anything you wish," Eric answered instantly.

"There will come a day when a human will lighten your burden, as Lily has done for me. Do not let them slip through your fingers. Promise me you will allow yourself to love."

I watched Eric turn back to the water, his mind working through my request. "I will." He spoke and continued to look out over the ocean.

My mind cleared of the old memory and I looked around to see I'd wandered to Lily's grave. "_You're an old fool_," I thought.

Though I'd begged her, Lily would never allow me to change her, and I had reluctantly respected her wish. She was still young when the accident had occurred, so random and senseless. While driving to the grocery store, a delivery truck had broadsided her car, snapping her neck and killing her instantly. I knew the exact moment life left her and wept in my sleeping place. Eric and I stole her body from the cold, heartless morgue and buried her that night. Eric consoled and remained by my side for many nights, holding me in his strong arms while I mourned her loss.

What I had foreseen those many years ago had come to pass. We, vampires, had made ourselves known to the humans. No longer were we forced to hide from their presence. My son was the Sheriff of Area Five now. He was respected among our kind and had grown stronger with each passing year. I no longer worried for his existence and knew that my greatest accomplishment would live on. I lay on the ground above my beloved Lily one last time. Would I see her when I passed on? I hoped so. Rising up slowly, I kissed the cold gravestone and rose up into the night sky.

* * *

**A/N: I would like to thank Latbfan for editing this chapter and for bringing us all together to write this wonderful story. **

**I own no rights to the HBO series True Blood or to Charlaine Harris' books.**

**Take care, Twitche**


	11. Chapter 11

Big, soft snowflakes fell gracefully from the sky and one spiraled onto my cheek: it did not melt. I could feel the clouds low in the late spring sky, hiding any trace of the heaves, perhaps the last snow in Gotland before summer's approach. Eric was soon to come back from Abo, Sweden's seat of power in its new eastern province, a place called Turku by its stubborn inhabitants. I chuckled at the memory of our last exchange.

"My man in Abo," Eric started.

"Ville?" I asked.

"Yes, Ville. He has shorted us in the last shipment of timber. It is time he learned the consequences of his deception. He will pay, perhaps in blood."

"This Ville, he is an important man in Turku, is he not?" I almost smiled.

"The place is called Abo. Do not call it Turku. It is under Swedish rule and has been for over a hundred years. Don't you start with the Finnish pronunciations, too. Those people need to speak the official language. And to answer your question, 'yes', Ville is powerful both as a merchant and as a politician."

"And you glamoured him, of course," I left no hint of accusation.

"No, Godric, I did not. Our meeting was accompanied by too many of his people to glamour without suspicion"

My eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. "And was everyone at the meeting speaking the language of the Swedes?" I was really enjoying myself.

"Almost," Eric looked as sheepish as a tall Viking could, "of course, some of his underlings whispered in that infernal Finnish."

"Eric, my child, you cannot go about killing important business contacts because you did not go to the trouble of learning their language. You must be the smartest man in the room. You are over a hundred years old and yet you speak only a few languages," I chided.

"Even you do not speak Finnish, Godric. Horrid language." Eric positively huffed.

"I will learn. Being the master of your enemy's language is a great advantage, as I learned even as a human. And in business, your partners in trade can be your enemy. Apart from Turku---sorry--- Abo, the Finnish language is widely spoken in Livonia, where, I do believe, we do a brisk trade in amber." I was suppressing a smile.

Eric looked deflated. He actually sighed, a reflex left over from his human life. "Yes, Godric. What do you suggest I do?"

"My child, I suggest you move to that province and move around the small villages and immerse yourself in the language. Glamour a local if necessary, someone bright and with a good vocabulary. When you have mastered the language, go to Ville. However, utilize glamour. I forbid bloodshed."

"Yes, Godric." Eric glanced at the ground.

"Do not be downtrodden, my child. I understand that some of the women are delectable. Besides, were it not for your immense knowledge of the eastern trade routes from Abo, to Tallin to Novgorad, we would never have built our empire. Visby, here in Gotland, is synonymous with eastern trade."

Eric brightened. He was understandably proud of his contribution to our business. The fact we would often fly from this island to the mainland of Sweden to feed was of little import. To use a crass human phrase, we could not shit in our own back yard. He left that warm October evening and now I felt his approach, his nearness, through the bond. I closed my eyes to concentrate, to call him to my spot.

"Godric." Eric kneeled before me.

I motioned him to stand, and we embraced. "Come inside, Eric, for I must hear of your travels and we have much to discuss. I have news from Lubeck. Ville, I take it, will not present further problems?"

"No, Godric," Eric grinned sardonically. Glamouring Ville must have been a fun experience.

"And the language?"

"Oiken, huvaa, " Eric flawlessly smirked. "What news from Lubeck? Those merchants with their guilds-"

"Hansa," I interrupted.

"Yes, Hansa. They are exceedingly clever in the manner in which they monopolize trade," he wisely noted.

"Yes, indeed. They have cornered the herring market in Skane, they long ago worked out trade with London with little in the way of tarrifs, and they are united with Hamburg and have cornered the salt fish market. I have not seen trade on this level of sophistication and machinations since the Romans." When Rome fell, so did engineering, trade, and vast quantities of academic knowledge. That I lived in Gotland, the land of the Goths, one of the tribes to deliver the death blow to the Roman Empire, struck me as ironic. Almost a thousand years later, I was emulating the Romans.

"We have been summoned to Lubeck by Herman, son of Manfred, for a meeting. We leave in but a few weeks, when the Baltic is safe for travel," I noted, "Sigfried and some of our best men will go by cargo boat. We will fly to the boat immediately before it makes landfall. It shall make landfall at evening, of course."

"I liked Lubeck better before it was a free Imperial City: they may no longer be under the yoke of the Holy Roman Emperor, but accounting for every ounce of goods, for every body entering their city creates needless problems for us. It would have been much easier to fly to Herman's front door," Eric shook his head.

"We need not do this often, but the ruse is necessary," I said.

After the usual hassle at the custom house, we encountered the armed guards at the brick gate at the walls of the city. One of the guards was ordered to escort us to the house of Herman, the leader of the Hansa and, therefore, the most powerful person in all of Lubeck.

Herman's house was a two story brick affair with a thick wooden front door which was rounded at the top and no higher than five feet high. Eric rolled his eyes not knowing if he was going to fit his frame through the small portal. After he knocked, Eric looked down upon the tiny servant who invited us in and quietly ushered us into a large room, graciously appointed. The walls were covered in Flemish tapestries and the room was lit with over twenty wax candles, a sign of significant wealth in those days. Behind a massive oak desk sat a portly, balding man with colorless hair. On his left was a boy, perhaps fifteen years of age, with the same colorless hair only much more of it.

"Welcome, I am Herman, son of Manfred," the big man rose and smiled. "This is Himmel, my oldest son. He is here to learn the business, with your permission, of course."

"Your son is most welcome, Herman. I am Eric, son of Eric. My son, Godric, is likewise with me to learn the business," Eric smoothly stated.

"Godric? Godric, did you say?" Herman looked at me quizzically, "that is, in fact, an old name around these parts. My father's grandfather was called Godric."

"Yes, of course. Godric's mother was a Saxon," Eric didn't miss a beat, "but she died when he was very, very young. It is a family name."

I looked at the ground and truly did think of my human mother. She often told me of her homeland by the sea at the north and at the mouth of a river. It was entirely possible that I was standing in the land of her birth. Even thirteen hundred years after her death, my memory of her had not faded; I saw her fair hair and blue eyes in my mind and something inside me tightened.

"Sit, please," Herman indicated to two chairs in front of the desk, "May I offer refreshment, beer perhaps?"

"Thank you, Herman, we require nothing," Eric played his part well.

"I have, of course, heard of your excellent reputation in eastern trade. Timber, fur, amber, and warehouses in Novgorod. You are younger than I imagined, Eric. You have done much for your age." Herman's eyes narrowed. He was taking in our full measure.

"I am six and thirty and began in the family business when I was no older than Godric," Eric said, "and, of course, my father before me did well."

"I am a good judge of character, Eric Ericson, and I sense that you are extremely competent, just as reports indicate," said Herman with a measure of authority as well as respect. "Very well. My reason for requesting your presence is to offer you, to offer Visby, membership in our Hansa. Before you respond, consider this: not only do we, Lubeck, ally ourselves completely with Hamburg, and thereby control the salted fish trade, the salt trade for all of the north, we also control the Skane fish market. You may already know this. What you do not know is that we have just completed arrangements with King Henry III of England to have free and unlimited trade with the whole of England. We begin construction of the warehouses in London immediately."

"What we need, however, to go with our emerging markets, are more diverse goods. We need each other, Eric Ericson: I need your fur, your amber, your wood. You, Eric, need guaranteed and immediate sales. You need only to bring your goods to Lubeck. From here, we complete the sale and deliver the goods to their new owners. You make only one stop: here. You have more free time for trips to the east. We both know that you can only sail the North Sea and the Baltic for a few precious months each year. We give you the opportunity to double your trade."

Eric's face was unreadable. Only I knew that he was waiting for my cue.

Surprising Herman, I spoke: "Permit me to ask, Herman Manfredson, if we join the Lubeck Hansa, does it follow that we may own land in the cities and lands of fellow Hansa members?"

Herman's eyes widened and soon narrowed when he realized the enormity of my question. He glanced, involuntarily, at his own son, no doubt concerned about the lad's intelligence. The year was 1266 and that made me 1330 years old, if I counted my human years. Little did he know that I considered Herman, despite his obvious intelligence, a mere child himself.

"Yes, Godric, son of Eric, that is precisely what it means." Herman recovered nicely. "As a Hansa member, not only can you join in warehouse construction, you may actually own lands in specially designated areas of any Hansa city, you may come and go without trouble, without regard to citizenship." He turned to Eric: "Being a Hansa member also carries with it responsibility. Your men are required to assist other Hansa members in the event of pirate attack if in the area. You have well trained men, I understand?"

"Extremely well trained, Herman," Eric said with emphasis on each word. "I personally supervise the training myself and almost all of Visby is under my control; they owe me fealty. I start them off young and train them for combat. We have never encountered a pirate attack we could not defeat."

"Very, good," said Herman. "Too many pirates in the Baltic think that Vikings still rule."

Eric's face was immobile, but I detected a tightening of his knuckles. "My men are trained in the old Viking ways of combat. They know every trick in the that can be imagined. We are prepared to defend our Hansa brethren." Eric glanced at me and I gave him him the slightest nod of my head.

Eric turned the full force of his gaze on Herman, and at that moment, I turned my gaze on Himmel. I spoke: "We accept your offer, Herman. Do you understand?" He nodded blankly, as did Himmel. "You will always deal with us in a full and fair manner and you will never cheat us of any money owed to Visby. If you try, we will know and the consequences will be fatal, for all of you." Both nodded mutely. "Further more, from this day forward, you, neither of you, will be able to recall our exact physical description. However, if we return in the future, you will immediately recognize us as the Visby Hansa and you will not consider the fact that we have not aged. This fact will never cross your minds. Additionally, you will not recall my instructions to you once you are fully conscious. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Godric," both father and son intoned in unison.

Open your wrist," I directed to Eric. To Herman and Himmel I said, "You will both now drink from our wrists." Both staggered over and began to draw.

"Is this necessary, Godric, the blood bond? And for the son, also?" Eric enquired.

"Absolutely necessary, my son," I said. "Once Herman dies, Himmel will take over and we need not come back and repeat the process with him. He is our creature now. We can detect their emotions and sense any betrayal, but they dare not betray us. More importantly, I have discovered that humans who are bonded are uncommonly healthy. They live a long life and do not suffer from those diseases that ravage other humans. Now that they are ours, their longevity is our convenience. We need not come back for a number of years." I turned to the humans: "That is enough. Stop."

After the necessary papers were signed, we stepped into the cool night air, down the lane and toward the public house where we would lodge for the day. Sig and his men had rented the entire premises and would stand guard in the cellar lodgings. He was loyal and would gladly give his life to guard ours, and he was not in need of glamour to know his duty. Sig would become our agent in Visby and become a wealthy man; I would sincerely mourn his passing one day.

"The public house we are headed tom I will purchase it," I mused out loud. "Now that we can own land here, it will serve as quarters for us while we are in town. I will glamour its owner and his first born: we will pay a fair price, but the same family will run the place for generations. We will always have a place in Lubeck, and one that keeps our hours. A portion of the profits will always be set aside for us."

"Are we leaving Visby, Godric?" Eric asked.

"Yes, I fear we must, my child. We have been there too long, and have had to glamour all of the inhabitants, but now that we are so prominent in business, we must keep moving. That is why we joined the Hansa, Eric, We can move freely and without question between Lubeck, Hamburg, London and York. It is much safer for us, to be able to move without our age becoming an issue in any one place. I have seen entities like the Hansa, before, Eric. It will spread, and when it does it gives us opportunity to move with impunity, changing our names so we become our fictional children inheriting our wealth. It is perfect for our way of life and it will make us immeasurably rich in the process."

Eric grinned, but his attention was riveted by two young ladies of the evening, both exceptionally young and pretty. The tall blonde with striking blue eyes immediately caught his fancy. She was beautiful, but with erect carriage and a seductive yet defiant face.

As we came closer, the perfume of her blood became intoxicating. The shorter girl with red hair was equally enchanting and shot me a coquettish glance. Eric, I could tell, was ready to ravish the taller one.

"You look good enough to eat," he said to the blonde with a look that combined the lust and hunger he felt. She smiled a beguiling smile.

"Eric," I warned, "no draining. And do not, I repeat, do not, forget to glamour this time." It was a command.

It took effort for him to tear his face from the girl, but he did and said to me, "Isa, veli ja poika." Father, brother and son.

"Kylla," I returned in perfect Finnish. Yes. And then I winked.

******

In 1356, the Hanseatic League became a formal trading league that monopolized trade from the Baltic to England. Every major city in Northern Europe became a partner, and its influence lasted for the next two hundred years. We amassed a fortune and bought pubs and taverns all throughout that time. When you next visit London or Hamburg or Lubeck and see a tavern that has been in existence for 900 years continuously, chances are that it belongs to us. Drink a toast the Saxons and the Vikings in our memory.

******

Written by Fulvia, with thanks to latbfan for her help in posting this on this site. I am grateful. Also thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read our fun experiment in the off season.


	12. Chapter 12

**Death Takes a Roman Holiday **

_BY fulvia_

Author's note: this the second to the last installment of our RR regarding Godric, and I want to thank everyone who has brilliantly contributed.

The following story is in line with history. Other than the supernatural elements and our two main heros, little has been tinkered with. Some of the elements of this story that seems fantastical, are not. Chigi's sumptuous villa over the Tiber in Trastevere really was built on the exact spot in which Julius Caesar had his summer residence and housed Cleopatra when she lived in Rome. It still stands today, but was bought the powerful Farnesina family following Chigi's demise, and the villa is now open to the public for all to enjoy her Raphael frescos and marble and guilt.

Literary liberties were taken, however, with regard to the Roman forum. During the Renaissance, centuries of dirt were covering much of the ruins in the forum, and the Via Sacra actually was used as a cattle market. It seems ironic that during a time in which the classical age was being revered, classical philosophy and rhetoric were taught in school, and classical art burst upon the scene, that actually classical ruins would be wholly ignored. Having the forum covered in dirt would not work for this story so it was changed.

****

When the servant opened the doors to my palazzo, the foyer resembled a black and white chessboard of polished carrera marble. The walls were covered by classical frescos, and beeswax candles lit and scented the room. We were finally in Rome, and were to stay for a number of months.

Eric surveyed the lower floor, from the large drawing room fit to entertain royalty, to the well stocked library and even the kitchen. The servants, of course, did require food, and over twenty were sent ahead from London to prepare the house for our arrival. It was May, and we would stay until fall. It was time to spend our summers away from northern latitudes where daylight routinely went on for eighteen hours a day. In Rome, we would be assured of at least ten hours of full dark a day, and that meant ten hours of productive consciousness. The servants complained about the heat in Rome, but to one of us, neither the heat nor the cold was an issue. If anything, the heat would warm us and make our guise as humans more plausible.

"An excellent choice of lodgings, Godric, much better than the tavern," Eric murmered with pleasure, "It does look to fit the Duke of Anhalt."

"Eric, you are not the Duke of Anhalt, merely a Viscount. You will do well to remember that. I am your cousin. We have been over this, here," I handed him a book on that German Royal House. Read it, for our survival may depend on it."

Although we usually stay in one of the many taverns or pubs we own in Northern Europe and have acquired over the last three hundred years, our reason fro staying in more gracious lodgings in Rome were twofold. First, we could never pass as Italians as fair as we were, regardless of our mastery of the language. We did not look like Roman bar owners. It would be simpler for us to pass ourselves off as unheard of members of some German Royal House. For centuries, it had been rumored that the very powerful Roman Orsini family was connected to the House of Anhalt. I had started that rumor personally. Secondly, although we owned a tavern in Rome, it was too small to meet our needs as it was a building some blocks west of the Pantheon dating from the late Republican period. It was a building I recalled from my childhood, a concession to nostalgia.

The tavern was purchased in 1346, a little over a hundred and fifty years before our arrival in this palazzo. The great plague ravaged Italy in 1344, killing over one-third of the population of the peninsula before spreading to the rest of Europe the following year. With the plague descimating the population and the fact that the Papacy was headquartered in Avignon, if one had enough money, anything in Rome could be purchased by anyone with money. As I discovered, our kind always profitted from human misery: we gorged ourselves on the blood of plague victims and bought up the spoils of the dead.

Everything had changed since the dark cloud of the plague had lifted from Italy. The Papacy was back in Rome, now under the iron fist of Pope Julius II, the so-called warrior Pope, called so for his desire to unite all of Italy under the Papal States, and often by warfare. He rode into battle with his troops. Classical languages were revived: school children now learned Greek and Latin and read many of the books by historians and philosophers as I did when as a child. The old Cathedral of St. Peters, built by Constantine himself, was slated to be demolished, and out of its ashes would arise the largest church in Christiandom. Rome was back, the vibrancy of this age was felt by everyone who was lucky enough to enjoy her.

"Godric," Eric looked serious, "do we not put ourselves in danger in living so lavishly? Does it not call too much attention to ourselves living in such luxury?"

"No, my child, " I smiled, "We surround ourselves with beauty, and the Romans have always worshipped beauty. We will spend our time with the first families of Rome and it will provide the perfect alibi for our feedings." I admired Eric in all his beauty and perfection: the Romans would adore him.

****

For the first few months, we were visited by and invited to the residence of those illustrious members of Rome's greatest families. In some sense, nothing had changed in 1500 years: Rome was still ruled by a handful of patrician families, and those families now pulled on Papal pursestrings, rather than greasing the hands of Republican counsels. On free nights, we found ourselves at _La Luna_, our tavern west of the Pantheon. The long narrow premises with ancient brick walls and the arched narrow brick ceiling always gave me comfort.

It was a warm night in late July when he walked into _La Luna_. At first, I did not notice his paint-stained apron, or the heavy black boots, all I noticed was the long, wild black hair and the thick, muscular build and the air of granduer and contempt that followed him like perfume. He marched into the back of the place and spoke to Niccolo, our front man, and the tavern's apparent owner. Eric and I looked on with curiosity.

"Buonarroti," Niccolo said sternly, "you will behave. No more outbursts, or you will be once again banned." Niccolo was a small, stocky man with jet black eyes and thining black hair. Although small in stature, especially as compared to the glowering man in the paint-stained apron, Niccolo possessed a core of calm resolve and authority which would withstand any onslaught of drink induced bad behavior.

"Some wine, if you please, and a bowl of beans", the man said as if ignoring the admonitions of the smaller Niccolo. As Niccolo turned his back to retrieve the wine, the man sneered. He took a sip of the wine and his eyes fell upon us. He stared.

Eric stared back, completely frozen, with a look that somehow managed to suggest boredom and malice.

Niccolo turned and caught the silent exchange. With good manners, he approached Eric and said, "Signore, Anhalt, allow me to introduce Signore Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni. He has been commissioned by the Pope to paint frescos in the Vatican." Niccolo turned to Buonarroti, "Signore, this is Eric of the great family of Anhalt, and his cousin, Godric."

Buonarroti snapped, "I am no painter, but a sculptor, an artist of the highest order." He was pompouos and ill-mannered, unkept and uncouth, but the air crackled with his magnetism.

"Buonarroti, if you cannot behave, you will be tossed in the ally never to return. These are our most honored guests," his voice was raising, "you cannot behave as a cur."

Cur, indeed. I held our my hand for Niccolo to stop, and turned to him, "Niccolo, this man is no trouble. You may go and leave us be." To Michelangelo Buonarroti, I motioned toward an empty chair at the table, "Please, Signore, sit with us." Niccolo left; he understood my authority.

"What do you do in Rome, why are you here?" Buonarroti, hissed. "You are here on behalf of Chigi. Oh, I know your kind. So devious, so deadly. So, you come on behalf of Chigi to cheat me out of my money. Four years of work, four years of creating a masterpiece, and he will not pay! Now you---"

"Wait," I interrupted. "You labor under the impression that my cousin and I are in Rome to assit Chigi? You speak of Agostino Chigi, the banker? The Pope's treasurer? Of course, we know of him. He lends money to all the Kings and Queens of Europe, but understand this: we have never met the gentleman in question and our presence in Rome is wholly unconnected to him."

"I know your kind. You always stick together." Buonarroti contemptuously replied.

"And I know your kind, cur." Eric simply stated.

Buonarroti fell silent and sipped his wine, examining us carefully. "Do I have your word as gentlemen, or whatever you are, that you do not assist Chigi?" he finally asked.

I looked at him squarely, "You do. And, allow me to clarify, Signore. Are you stating that Chigi is vampire? We were given to understand that no vampires were allowed to live in the Papal states and that no sovereign rules here."

Buonarroti came closer and whispered conspiratorially, "Yes, you are right. He is Sienese, no? He has a sovereign in Siena who has no authority here in Rome. The Pope knows this, the Pope allows this. Chigi is a vampire for only ten years, very young." He looked from me to Eric. "Ah, it took me a while to notice. I see now how it is. Signore, Godric, you are older than Signore Eric. It took me a while to notice. But, yes, the Pope owes Chigi much money. The Pope is very ambitious, and the construction of the new Cathedral at Pt. Peter's will drain him dry. He needs Chigi, he needs the money. But, Chigi, that miser, refuses to pay me and without any cause."

For a werewolf, Michelangelo Buonarroti was exceptionally observant. He was, without any doubt, a lone wolf. Not only did his personality suggest incompatibility with a pack, but Papal Rome was free of supernatural creatures. Or, at least it used to be.

"Are you close to completion with your Vatican project?" Eric inquired.

"Yes, yes. I am almost done. For four years, I slave in the Vatican, night and day, spending my life on scaffolding, staring above me, painting each stroke. I do it all by myself, no group of helpers like that fraud Raphael. But, then you understand why I must work alone. My sweat, my blood, everything I pour into that ceiling. And, I am not a painter. It was that bastard, Raphael, who made the Pope commission me to paint the ceiling. I know it was him, porce madonna," he cursed, "for he is jealous of my gifts and wanted to make me look bad, forcing me to paint, which is not my strength. He is painting frescos in the Vatican, too, and he wants to look good, better than me. Curse him and the Pope and the Pope's bloodsucking treasurer. But, I paint a masterpiece. Raphael's trickery and deception get him nothing."

"So, this Chigi," Eric started, "he refused to pay you for four years of work, painting frescos on the ceiling of the Vatican, is that right?"

"Yes, Signore." The painter looked carefully at Eric. I couldn't quite made out his expression, but then it hit me: Eric's beauty had mesmerized the man and overridden the natural revulsion werewolves usually have for our kind. The eye of the artist was stronger than the eye of the were.

"And, why exactly, are you telling us all this?" I heard Eric ask.

Michelangelo Buonarroti turned to me with the same rapt expression he had for Eric. "I need your help. To get my money. You are old and powerful, I can tell, much more powerful than Chigi. You can convince Chigi to pay me my due. Eight thousand gold ducats."

"Michelangelo Buonarroti, " I started, "you are a talented and clever man. Why do you not go to the Pope yourself and ask for payment. Surely, Julius II is a reasonable man, and he commissioned you, not Chigi."

The large man cast his head down, and murmured, "Chigi has blackmailed me. If I go to the Pope, he threatens to disclose my real nature. I would be hunted down and killed."

"If we help you, dog, what do get in return? You cannot expect for us to act against a vampire without a bit of quid pro quo." Eric was ever the businessman.

"I would be in your debt," the painter said simply.

"Leave us now, Signore Buonarroti, and let us consider the matter," I said equally simply. With that, the large man swallowed the rest of his wine and walked out the door.

Eric slowly tuned to me and said,"Godric, surely you cannot be considering helping that were. What good would that do us?"

"I cannot readily explain it, Eric," I shook my head, "but this man is exceptional. For fifteen hundred years I have observed humans. Men such as him are rare and intrigue me. It would be good to have in our debt, especially if the quarrel is simply over money."

"But he is a were, and his quarrel is with another vampire." Eric retorted.

"True, my child. But, how many of our kind have you ever genuinely cared for? Why do you supposed, Eric, that vampires and werewolves have such animosity towards one another?"

Eric shook his head.

"My theory is this: we are both supernatural creatures, and creatures of the night. We vampires do not age, we are, conceivably immortal. It is that fact that causes jealousy and suspicion by were of us. The werewolves, however, have something we do not: they can change. On each and every full moon, they transform themselves. We remain the same day in and day out. We, whether we like to admit it or not, envy their changeability."

Eric pondered this for a while until he spotted a lovely young thing plying her wares at closing time. His lips curled into a lascivious smile. "My hunger calls," he said.

****

"Eric," I said as we were walking from _La Luna _to our palazzo one night a few weeks after our meeting with the painter, "there is something I need to do. I should not be too long." With that, I turned and took an ally that would lead me toward the forum.

I walked at human speed, my feet unwilling to hurry toward my destination. Was I apprehensive? We had been in Rome for a few months and lived but blocks from these famous ruins. I had always meant to go but always, I realized now, procrastinated. The moon was three quarters full and the sky was clear; with my enhanced vision, the Roman sun might as well have been shining.

I walked down the Via Sacra, the main street in the forum and saw all the arches and temples and government buildings, just as they were, not the broken bits of marble now before me. And, then, I saw it: a big, black mass of charred material, hardened, and almost petrified. Small bouquets of flowers lay on its top. It was the remains of the funeral pyre of Gaius Julius Caesar. He was the greatest man I had ever known, and no one, in all these centuries, had ever been his equal. My death had been before his; I had never said "goodbye". Underneath the stars of the Roman heavens, by the monument still revered by many, I sat down and wept.

After some unknown amount of time had passed, I felt a presence beside me, and knew, at once, who it was.

"You knew Caesar?" Buonarroti asked very quietly, his voice shakey.

I simply nodded. It was a moment of grief I had carried with me all my life and, after all these centuries, I was finally acknowledging the heaviness and releasing it.

"I walk the forum at night, often, and pay my respects to the great man," he said. "If you wish to tell me, I would enjoy hearing about Caesar. I learned much about him at the Medici school in Florence," he said in a comforting manner.

It was a relief to drop the mask I wore with everyone but my beloved Eric. For the next hour, we discussed Caesar and Cicero and Cato and the greats of that age. I had met them all. I told him of my human life, my enslavement and release. The relief I felt was palpable.

"Signore Buonarroti," I began.

"Please, call me Michelangelo," he said.

"Thank you. You may call me Godric. I have heard of your statues but have never seen one. Where might I enjoy your work?"

"Ah, my Pieta, she sits in the chapel of San Petronilla at St. Peters. At this time of night, we could not see it. The Pope's new Swiss Guards, you understand. But, wait: you could do the, how do you call it, the glamour?"

"Put your arms around my neck and hold on tightly. You will not hurt me," I said. In an instant, we were in the air and arrived at the old St. Peter's. After a few moments, we were inside where Michelangelo expertly guided me to the chapel of San Petronilla. There sat his masterpiece, the young madonna, cradling the broken body of her serene faced, dead son. Although the man beside me beamed with pride, I could hardly notice him, or anything else around me except that wonderful carved piece of marble. It was sublime.

After some time, Michelangelo spoke, "She is beautiful, no?"

"I have never seen such perfection." The beauty of the madonna, her youth, for she looked no older than her son, left me speechless. The folds in her dress were so real, I wanted to grasp the statue and satisfy my senses that it was not cloth.

"Her pain, her loss, make her beautiful," he noted. "This is her moment, our moment, of redemption," he went on, "for all her pain and loss, she understands that her son died for our sins. Her pain and her redemption perhaps create divine beauty. There can be no redemption without pain."

I did not reply. Although never a Christian, I understood, perhaps for the first time, the concept of redemption. Was it possible that this artist brought a seed of the divine into my limitless existence? What pain must I feel if searching for my redemption? Was redemption possible for one such as myself?

"So, you like my Pieta, Godric?" Michelangelo finally asked after many moments.

"Yes, I m overwhelmed. You are, indeed, a genius, my friend. I will promise to help you to get your money from Chigi. It is, perhaps, fortunate, that Eric has received an invitation for us to attend a formal party at Chigi's grand new villa in Trastevere."

He looked at me with affection and I wondered at the artistic miracle, here in the church of St. Peter, that had opened my heart to this uncouth genius who just happened to be a werewolf.

*****

A full moon reflected on the Tiber as we crossed the river and spotted Chigi's villa. The grounds, which ran all the way to the banks of the Tiber, were lit with a hundred torches. The peach color of the villa shone softly in those lights and we could see hundreds of windows, which was an unheard of extravagance in those times, and, no doubt, made of Venetian glass. The interior was also lit by candles making it an incandescent scene.

As soon as we crossed the bridge, my feet stopped and I heard myself laugh.

"What is so amusing?" Eric asked, puzzled.

"I've been here before, Eric, " I smiled.

"Nonsense. Signore Colonna told me that Chigi completed his villa in 1511. That was last year, was it not?" Eric, like most of our kind, was as confused by the years as humans were by the days of the week.

"No, Eric, I was here while I was mortal; many times. Chigi's villa sits on the exact spot as Julius Caesar's summer house. It was here that Cleopatra stayed with their son while she was in Rome." I shook my head. A piece of Chigi's character fell into place: he was immensely vain and self-important.

We were greeted by a servant upon arrival and were taken to a lavish drawing room to the right of the foyer where we were announced. This room was like nothing that I had ever seen before. Large chandeliers holding about fifty candles a piece illuminated the room. The floor contained many different varieties of colored marble and every inch of the walls and ceilings were elaborately frescoed. For someone accustomed to northern austerity, the assault to the eyes was overwhelming. Upon closer examination, the frescos were expertly painted; no journeyman apprentice had laid a brush upon these walls.

A tall, well built man with long, black, curly hair worn well past his shoulders approached. His skin was olive and he sported a very thin mustache. He moved with a certain flair, but when he saw our faces, surprise flickered briefly over the calm facade of his face. The crowded room paused as we were greeted by our host.

"Signore, Anhalt, you are most welcomed to my house. Thank you sincerely for accepting my invitation to this little party. I am Agostino Chigi. Very pleased to meet your acquaintance," Chigi enthused.

"Eric of Anhalt, at your service," Eric bowed slightly. "You are most gracious to extend an invitation to your beautiful residence to myself, as well as my young cousin. We are delighted to make your acquaintance whist in Rome."

I also bowed slightly and smiled knowingly at our host.

"I have heard, " Chigi said, "that you have met many of our guests this summer, including your Orsini cousins, but I would like to introduce you, with your permission of course, to some of the artists that have worked on this very room."

"We would be delighted and humbled to meet any man who could create such loveliness. My cousin, here," Eric nodded in my direction, "is very taken by the style of art currently popular in Rome." When Eric needed to play the part, he could charm anyone. His nordic coloring was much admired and talked of in Rome, but it was his good looks, easy charm and education and intelligence that people found intoxicating. Although no longer human, Chigi was not immune from Eric's gravitational pull.

After a moment, Chigi introduced a young artist, perhaps thirty years of age. It was none other than Raphael Sanzio, the man reviled by Michelangelo. He was in every way Michelangelo's opposite: he possessed delicate features to Michelangelo's course ones; his manners were impeccable and engaging; he was expertly dressed and in high fashion, whereas the sculptor looked to have slept in his old work boots. After a few pleasantries, Chigi took Eric by the arm to introduce him to the great philosophers and beautiful courtesans of Rome. I remained with the painter.

"Signore Chigi, I understand, is your patron," I began when we were alone.

"Oh, yes. I am much indebted to Signore Chigi. This party is in my honor, actually." Raphael spoke humbly. "Rather, it is in honor of my _Galetea_," he motioned to a fresco on the wall behind me. "She is just completed."

I turned to study the sumptuous scene of classical Greek mythology. The beautiful nymph, Galetea, was in a tumultuous sea, standing on a large sea shell, her left hand holding a harness with two dolphins pulling her along. Three _putti_, or cupids hovered above her, all with arrows drawn at her head, while the nymph looked into the distance, her hair and garments blown wildly by the wind. The scene was sensuous and balanced and exquisite. I understood immediately the rivalry between these artists.

"You appreciate art, I can tell, Signore Godric." Raphael looked pleased.

"Yes, very much. I am no expert, of course, but I know what I like." A thought occurred to me, "In fact, very recently, I had the pleasure of viewing the Pieta, by Michelangelo Buonarroti," I innocently added.

"He is a brilliant artist, young Godric," Raphael stated. "I shall let you in on a little secret. We are both commissioned to paint frescos in the Vatican. He has been painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for four years now. He began in 1508. He works completely alone and locks the doors at all times. Only he and the Pope have the keys. He is now putting on the finishing touches. A few months ago, I asked the Pope to let me see his work, very late at night, when Buonarroti was gone. You must stay in Rome until it is unveiled. You have never seen such work, such greatness. It is a fresco for the ages." Raphael was serious, n hint of jealousy or ill will. Michelangelo was clearly mistaken about this artist's motives toward him.  
"Your work is exceptional, thank you for taking the time to show it to me," I said, "but I must excuse myself and ask Signore Chigi a question." I bowed and went to find our host.

As I crossed the room, I saw Eric, surrounded by a large group of people, including an enchanting woman. It must be Francesa Ordeischi, the famous Venetian courtesan, and now Chigi's mistress. I saw the glow of her skin, indicative of her consumption of her lover's blood, enhancing her natural good looks. As I passed, I heard Eric say, "But those who do not observe the impulses of their own minds must by necessity be unhappy." He was quoting Marcus Aurelius and the woman surrounding him were enraptured. Eric often grew bored playing human, but he had a gift for it.

"Signore, Chigi," I began, mustering up polite innocence, "would it be too much to ask for you to show me your grounds? They are lovely."

"Please, call me Agostino, and you have read my mind, my young friend." He took me by the arm and escorted me outside, while we took in the acres of grounds, softly lit, and spotted a large boxwood maze in the distance. We walked toward it.

When out of human hearing I asked, "Agostino, would it be too impudent for me to ask you about your maker? Who is he, or she?" my tone was gentle and polite.

For a fraction of a second, too fast for a human to notice, I saw panic flash in his face. "My maker is Sienese, of course, as vampires are generally discouraged here in Rome. The Pope has made a bargain with the King of our kind in Madrid that no vampire may live in the Papal states, although the Pope has made an exception for me. Unfortunately," I sensed his insincerity, "my maker has met his final death. It was very difficult for me. I cannot talk about it, you must understand."

Oh, I understood. Chigi had convinced a vampire to turn him and then Chigi turned on his maker. He was a rogue vampire, not wishing to be bound to anyone.

After a pause, Chigi inquired, "Why are you curious about my maker, Godric?"

"I was made in Rome, myself. My maker was turned while fighting Hannibal in the third Punic war with Carthage, on the banks of Lake Trasimeno. He rescued me from enslavement during the last days of the Republic. I was merely curious if we had mutual acquaintances. It has been many centuries since I saw my maker. Do you know him, Appius, by any chance?" Although I normally don't speak of my age, it was important for this young one to understand my power.

"No, Godric, I do not." We walked in companionable silence.

"Your house and grounds have no equal in Rome. It is a place fit for a King and it must give you geat grief to have to leave it shortly," I mused.

"Why would I leave my house? Why would I leave Rome?" Chigi's voice only hinted at the urgency that I sensed he felt.

"Oh, of course, since you do not have a maker, you do not understand," we entered the boxwood maze, "our kind, we have a few laws that must be obeyed. We, cannot, naturally, kill one of our own kind, unless in self defense. To do so otherwise would subject us to extreme punishment." I looked quickly at Chigi to see if my words were sinking in. "Additionally, we are required , when turned, to give up or human identity. It is a matter of security for all of us. If we do not age, that fact raises human suspicion, and questions arise; it is dangerous. It is a law made for all our protection. Of course, since you no longer have a maker and you are so very young, you could not have known. If the inquisitors should discover this, I would speak on your behalf. Surely, they would make an exception for you."

"Inquisitors?" Chigi asked.

"Oh, yes. Our King in Madrid thought it would be wise to turn some actual Papal Inquisitors, to carry out our justice. Some were turned at the middle of the last century in Madrid. They hear evidence and mete out justice to our kind. It is amusing to think of how quickly they adapted to our kind of life. They are terribly efficient." I tried to sound serious and somber. I hoped my veiled threat met its mark.

"My real reason for wanting to speak to you alone concerns the artist, Michelangelo Buonarroti. I am here on his behalf and he is painting---"

"Buonarroti," Chigi roared, "that ungrateful, blasphemous dog. His rudeness knows no bounds, he is a filthy animal. He refuses to paint in my house and treats me with contempt. I will crush him. How dare you come here on his behalf?", his black eyes glowered. "How dare you come to my house and speak to me of that animal?" It was clear that Buonarroti had injured his considerable pride and vanity.

In his anger, Chigi began to strike me. Before he could move to hurt me, I pinned his hands behind his back. I was a thousand times stronger than this child and he was a rag in my hands. My fangs clicked in place. We were in the heart of the maze when a large wolf, fangs bared, entered the clearing. I was able to silently call him to our location.

"Chigi, I believe you know Signore Buonarroti," the wolf growled. "For a brilliant businessman, you have a poor memory, my dear Chigi. Did I not just explain to you that it was permissible to kill another vampire in self defense? And yet, you attempt to strike me." My voice was completely level. "I could snap your head off without effort. You think that you are invincible because you are the Pope's pet? He is a mere mortal, and could die soon."

"Are you threatening the Pope? He is God's representative on earth, how dare you?" Chigi spat.

"I have no God, Chigi. The Pope is just a man. A man who has fathered illigitimate children, a man consumed with ambition and self glory. Your Jesus, I admit, says many things I admire. None of you, with your quest for power and wealth, the way you start wars and ignore the poor, actually follow his teachings. I care nothing for your Pope. And, he my dear Chigi, cares nothing for you. He hates our kind which is why he entered into the bargain with our King. You are being used for your money."

Chigi fell silent. He realized it was checkmate.

"I could legally kill you, Chigi, and the fact would not upset me in the least. Or, we could have this lone wolf here bite you? Would not that be interesting? I have never known of a vampire bitten by a werewolf, and I have great curiosity about the results. The third option is for you to pay this artist here his 16,000 gold ducats. Your vault is in your house, this I know."

"16,000? You blackmail me." Chigi raised his voice.

"The additional 8,000 is for all this absurd effort you have put me through. Come on, be quick, before I change my mind and decide to go with one of the other options. Oh, and Chigi: if you ever cheat this man again, if you interfere with his career, Madrid would be interested to know that the Pope has broken his bargain with them. They may be very interested in you, too. Take a few years, put your affairs in order, but you must disappear. You really have no other choice."

***

For the next few weeks, Michelangelo was a fixture at our palazzo. He delighted in his good fortune about money and the near completion of his four year project. One night, he surprised us.

"Cone, come, I have a surprise for you. Both of you must come with me, for we are going to the Vatican." And, with that, we took off with our over excited friend.

It was very late at night and Michelangelo ran us through the building to the locked chapel in which he worked. The scaffolding which he had climbed everyday was partially down and he started to light many candles to improve the light. With our eyesight, he needn't have bothered. I contemplated the difficulty of working for four years on this scaffolding, painting this enormous ceiling, stroke, by stroke. The artist's werewolf stamina had surely helped him with this arduous task.

The ceiling itself was miraculous. It appeared three dimensional and contained numerous scenes from the Christain bible, both new and old testaments. The figures had strength and vitality, and a boldness of form lacking in Raphael's work. We stood there with our necks craned upward, speechless. For many moments, all we could do was stare.

"Look, look, up there, to the scene of the creation of Eve," Michelangelo said to Eric. Eric, in return, shifted his eyes to search for the scene. "You see the smaller figures at the corner of the scene?" Eric nodded, "they are the _ignudi_, the perfection of physical beauty. Look at the one sitting down."

Eric and I both looked. What we saw was a beautiful male nude, pale, and almost white, sitting while his left arm came above his head, elbow bent to frame his brow, almost hiding his dark blond hair. It was the perfect image of Eric, and even his naked body was very close to the real model.

"Now, Godric," Michelangelo went on in an animated voice, "look up to the center of my work. God creating Adam, the figure where God's finger reaches over to give the spark of life to Adam's finger. Look at the images on top of that."

I did so. Above Adam's head was a flying angel and also above God's. The angel hovering above God's head was much paler than the other and I recognized in him my own face. The irony that I was painted as an angel of God was not lost on me. It would have been more appropriate to paint me as the angel of death.

"See, how he flies? Just like you. You were my angel, Godric, and even though you are immortal, I give you a different kind of immortality," the artist said.

As dawn was breaking and I prepared for rest, the thought occurred to me, "at what price, immortality?"


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: latbfan here. *waves cheerfully* Just so everyone is aware, as it's relevant for my Chapter, I write under the assumption that there's an on-going relationship between Eric and Bill. Please feel free to disagree, but the seeds were sown in both the SVM and TB for their complex history, and whenever Sookie's not involved, they get along very well.

Just to warn you, when she arrives, Nan Flanagan likes to curse.

I don't speak Swedish, so I relied on the internet for appropriate translations. If I ended up writing something obscene, I didn't mean to.

This is the end of our little game of Round-Robin; thanks for playing along with us. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have. We're planning on doing another one after the holidays, so if you'd like to join in, please PM me for details.

___________________________________________________________________

The Bomb before the Dawn

"Godric?" Eric softly says. I shake my head to clear it of the two thousand years of memories that have been playing like a movie in my mind. Humans have often spoken of their life flashing before their eyes, but this is the first time I've experienced the sensation. Eric and I are the only two left in the nest. Everyone else is on their way to the hotel, and I should be too, but I can't seem to bring myself to leave the ruins of my living room.

For nearly 2,000 years, I prowled the fringes of battlefields, following various armies around the globe as they senselessly slaughtered each other. The newly dead and dying were laid out before me like a never-ending buffet. Sometimes I envisioned myself as a merciful Angel of Death, painlessly ending the suffering of someone beyond help. Other times, I ignored the pleas and the cries for wives and mothers and God, and I simply satisfied my own hunger and moved on. I'd long ago lost count of the bodies I'd seen, sometimes in pieces, rotting on the earth as blood stained the soil red. This destroyed house, one small bomb, and a handful of dead is but a drop in the ocean of carnage, but this night is more than I want to bear. The stench of charred flesh and gelatinous remains of dead vampires mixes uneasily with fresh human blood and the chemicals that caused the explosion. The structure is unsound; I can hear the rubble as it continues to settle, and the walls may remain standing until dawn.

"Godric?" Eric repeats. "We need to leave this place."

I nod. "I know."

"Let's get a change of clothes. You can stay with me."

I allow my Child to lead me to my room, but I don't want any of the garments in my closet that reek of the bombing. Instead, I unlock the trapdoor hidden in the floor, inviting Eric down into my tunnel.

"You should reconsider your overhead-clearance," he teases. He's forced to walk hunched over as we move silently towards my safe-room.

"I didn't build it with a Nordic god in mind," I say.

He chuckles quietly. "Yes, well, height does have certain disadvantages sometimes. But honestly, would you want me any other way?"

"There have been times I've considered shrinking your enormous head," I retort. Eric's laughter echoes loudly in the tunnel as we arrive at the first of the security doors. He politely turns his back as I move to punch in the code. "Eric, please," I say. "As if I would keep anything from you."

He shrugs, still turned away from me. "We all have our secrets." I swiftly open the doors, and Eric stands and politely evaluates my safe-room. "Mine is similar," he finally says. "Although I don't have provisions for humans." He nods towards the open door that leads to a small room with a toilet and stash of food and water. "It's a good idea. Did you have a particular human in mind?"

I shake my head. "I just like to be prepared." I open the armoire and pull out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. "These are your size," I say as I hand them to him. I nod towards the shower. "You can go first."

He smiles at me. "You are prepared."

I don't comment on his smug, satisfied grin. Instead, I settle into my favorite chair and watch as Eric unselfconsciously strips off his tattered clothes and steps under the shower spray. Even after 1,000 years, I never tire of looking at him. He is perfection itself, as if one of the gods decided to come to earth and play human. In my long life, I've tried just about everything the mind could possibly imagine, but my time with Eric stands magnificently alone in terms of joy and pleasure.

"I see Fangtasia shirts quite frequently," I conversationally say, knowing he can hear me over the sound of the water. "You must be doing well if people from Dallas are driving over."

Eric shrugs as he lathers his body, and I'm briefly envious of the bar of soap. "I do alright."

I chuckle. "I find it amusing that you've owned a bar, in some form or fashion, for nearly 1,000 years. I never understood the appeal."

"Never the same night twice," he says, soaping his hair. "I never know what will walk through the door. Plus, I get free t-shirts from the distributors." I know he's only partially-joking. The fact that he's still amused by free shirts is what I love most about Eric – his playful delight that time has not eroded. He turns off the water and stands before me, toweling his hair and his body.

"And Pamela?" I ask. "Is she still with you, or have you driven her off again."

Eric smiles indulgently. "She's getting to the end of her rope, for sure. But she's handy to have around." He shrugs. "I'm hoping to convince her to stay a while longer, but I would never hold her against her will."

"It's nice when a Maker can enjoy his Child."

"I more than enjoy Pam," Eric says as he pulls the t-shirt over his head, shaking his hair and sending droplets of water around the room. "I couldn't ask for a better Child."

"I know that," I say. It's my turn to strip down and shower, and I watch through the water as Eric picks up my iPod and browses my music, occasionally nodding his head in agreement or snorting his displeasure at one of my choices.

"Why didn't you come with me when I came for you?" he repeats, his eyes riveted to the tiny screen. He'd asked me that same question earlier, before the bomb. I stuck my head under the spray and didn't answer. "Godric?" he asks, looking in my direction. "Why didn't you come with me?"

I turn off the shower and towel myself, keeping my back to him.

"Godric?" he says again.

"Why do you keep asking?" I finally say.

"Because you've never not answered me when I've asked a question."

I sigh. "Why did you risk your people for me? Why did you risk yourself?" I slipped on a pair of pants and a shirt, missing the days when I wore next to nothing. I turn to face my Child at last. "Why didn't you leave well enough alone?"

"I would never leave you," he quietly says.

I nod. "Let's go."

I open the door and allow Eric to exit before me. Instead of resetting the security system, my fingers hesitate over the keypad. I take a deep breath, enjoying the clean smell of soap mingling with Eric's natural musky scent, and I punch in the special series of numbers that will reset the doors as soon as they shut. The next pin, the next retinal scan, and the next drop of blood will be keys to unlock the doors. When Isabel takes over as Sheriff, this will be hers. I'll have to tell her how to access it, and I'll have to apologize for leaving it a mess, but as the third door hisses behind me, and Eric and I move back through the tunnel to one of the other exits, I know I'll never again walk this path.

Isabel will be a good Sheriff. She'll rule with compassion and intelligence. She'll be just. She's old enough to successfully fight off adversaries if necessary, and she's wise enough to know the key to fighting is only do it when she knows she can win. Having new responsibilities will help ease the pain of Hugo's betrayal, too. As an empath, she could've known at any time that he was deceiving her, but I can't blame her for not wanting to know. We all need our delusions.

"This way," I say to Eric, and we silently exit through a trap door in the basement of Cathedral Guadalupe in downtown Dallas. Eric and I take to the air, flying the short distance to the hotel. Armed guards are standing by the front doors, along with media vans and cameras.

"Back door," Eric murmurs, and we flash around to the back, too fast for the humans to see.

Isabel is waiting for me in the lobby. "Sheriff," she says, bowing. "Everyone is accounted for and checked in. We have guards in place until dawn, when the Dallas pack will take over."

I smile and nod. "Very good, Isabel. Thank you."

"The American Vampire League has been notified," she says. Someone who didn't know her wouldn't be able to detect the disdain in her voice, but I know her well. As far as I'm aware, no one likes Nan Flanagan, a reputation she seems to actively promote and relish. "They said representatives will be here tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow?" Eric says. "I thought the bitch was in Japan?"

"She's flying as soon as the live interview with the Newlins is complete," Isabel says. "She'll be here tomorrow night."

"Unless we're lucky and the plane crashes," Eric mutters.

"Eric," I warn. "There was no way around that," I assure Isabel. "Call me as soon as you rise tomorrow."

Eric and I ride the elevator to his floor, and we step off and walk down the hallway. He stops outside his door and leans towards the room across the hall, straining to hear through the hotel's soundproofing.

"What are you doing?" I ask. I listen carefully too, and it's obviously the sound of two people enjoying each other's bodies. "Eric?"

"What?" he says, jumping. He unlocks the door and invites me in.

"What were you doing?" I repeat once we're seated in the lavish sitting area of the suite.

"He's fucking her," he growls as he leans closer to the door, staring intently at the wood, as if he could see through it. "Not that I blame him, of course. I'd do the same. I'm sure she'll feed from him tonight as well. It's not like he can completely over-power my blood, but I expect him to try."

I sigh. Sookie Stackhouse. The woman he'd sent to find me. The woman he'd deceived into drinking his blood after the attack.

"She belongs to another," I quietly remind him.

"When has that ever stopped me?" he shrugs.

"Eric," I chide. "You're a thousand years old, and there are times you have the self-control of a newborn." He grins his lop-sided grin, and it feels like my heart is so full of love it will burst. "It's one of the most ancient and sacred of our laws."

"Do you remember Demetrius' Cassandra?" he asks. "Oh! Was he furious when she came to me!"

"How could I forget? We had to leave rather abruptly after that, and I really enjoyed that nest." Eric laughs. "I believe he truly loved her," I quietly add.

Eric shrugs. "Yes, but it was too easy. I didn't even have to glamour her. In the end, I really think I did him a favor. One shouldn't bond with a human so fickle." He shakes his head at the memory. "I haven't spoken to him since. It's been what? Four hundred years? Four hundred and fifty? I should ask Bill if he has Demetrius' phone number."

"He's dead," I say. Eric looks at me, the shock of my statement settling into his eyes.

"Dead?"

I nod. "He was in India." Eric will know hundreds were hunted down and killed in the nights following the announcement, and even more humans, mistaken for vampires, were killed, the night skies ablaze with the bonfires. "Why would you think Bill would have his contact information?"

Eric shrugs. "Bill knows how to reach just about everyone. He's… really organized…" Eric's voice trails off, and he stares blankly at the door.

Suddenly, I realized who he meant. "Bill?" I say. He looks at me. "The vampire here, the one I met tonight? The one whose Maker I expelled? He's your Bill?"

"He's never been mine," Eric responds too quickly.

"Fine," I agree. "But the Bill you've spoken about? He's that Bill?" I indicate the room across the hall. Eric nods. "Sookie Stackhouse belongs to your Bill?"

"Damnit, Godric," Eric says, standing. "He is not mine."

"Oh Eric…" I sigh, my heart pitying him. "So the woman you tricked into bonding with you belongs to the vampire who's refused you?" He looks away and reluctantly nods. "Eric, you must leave her alone."

"Why?" he demands, his eyes bright in his pale face. "Why must I?"

"You've never manipulated someone into bonding before. Yet you do it for this woman who's connected to a man you admire." I shake my head. "Don't you see? How can you be sure it's the human you want, and not the vampire?"

Eric sits down and holds his head in his hands. "I won't pretend that I don't care for Bill," he begins. "But he started it. He made his choice."

"Eric, that's so childish."

"I've never even tasted her... She smells… incredible, but I've never…"

"Eric," I begin."

"The first time I saw her," Eric quietly interrupts, his voice no more than a whisper. "It was like my heart started beating again. Do you know what I mean? She makes me feel so alive…"

I remember when I saw Eric for the first time. I was a safe distance from a battle, and I held my breath when I saw him, swinging his sword so fluidly he was the living incarnation of movement itself. He danced; his strength somehow endless as he cut through the enemy. Even those he was fighting stopped to stare in wonder at him, and the last thing they saw on this earth was my beautiful Child slaying them with breath-taking ease.

I stalked him and his men for weeks. I watched him fight and laugh with his brothers in arms and bed women. His incredible zest for life was so dazzling that it hurt to witness, but I couldn't bring myself to look away. It was like seeing the sun again, and I slept in fear that he'd be killed while I was helpless to prevent it. I needed him, and yet I couldn't kill him. It was the incredible paradox of the turning – to live forever, one had to die.

"Yes," I whisper. "I know what that's like."

"She's…" Eric sighs and helplessly waves his hands. "She's unlike anyone I've ever known. I want her, Godric. I need her. I can't explain why; I just do."

I nod. "What of Bill? Don't you think he might feel the same way?"

Eric smiles sadly. "Do you believe me when I say that I respect him so much and want her so badly that I would be willing to share with him?"

I laugh. "You? Share? No, I don't believe it."

Eric shakes his head. "It's hard for me to believe myself. But I would. He reminds me of you…"

"Of me?" Eric nods. "Then I pity the poor fool."

"He's so unlike me," Eric says. "I love this life, and if I had to do it over, I would choose it a thousand times again. But not Bill…" We sit in comfortable silence, my heart sighing in relief. I've always known that Eric loved being vampire, but I'm glad he spoke the words aloud this night.

"He was turned against his will," Eric continues. "Lorena, the vampire you expelled, she didn't give him the choice. If she had, he would've refused her. And yet he tries so hard to do the right thing." I don't speak. "Of course, he often doesn't, or can't, but he tries. I love him for trying…" A look of pain momentarily crosses his face, and he closes his eyes and rubs his temples.

"Eric?" I ask.

"She's feeding from him," he says in a detached voice. "And she feels… assuaged. He must've told her it might lessen her bond with me."

"And Bill?"

"Love," Eric whispers. "All he feels is love. Hopeful and desperate and overwhelming love."

We sit silently and listen to the muffled sounds across the hall of Sookie crying out in pleasure and Bill's roar of release. "He'll not turn her, he says," Eric finally says when they became quiet. "He's had enough of my blood, not a lot but enough, that I know he's telling the truth. He would risk himself that way… Loving her, giving himself to her, when he knows it cannot last, not thinking about the inevitability of her death and what it will mean for him. He does that every night. For her…"

"And you?"

Eric smiles. "I want it all. I've always wanted it all."

"Which is why you deceived this woman, who's been so loyal to our kind, into bonding with you?" I quietly ask.

"It is done," he hisses, angrily rising and pacing the room. "I cannot undo it."

"She belongs to your friend," I gently remind him. "You and I both know how seldom a true friend comes along, even when immortality stretches out before us: a handful in a very long lifetime, at best. And you would throw that away for this girl?"

"It's done," he angrily repeats. "And would you have not done the same? Would you not have risked everything to feel alive again?"

I stare into his eyes that are the color of a stormy sea, and I know that I would. I'm so grateful that I hadn't called Eric this past year in a moment of weakness. I remember all the times I'd dialed the first six numbers, only to hang up. I cannot, and I will not, impede his life with my burdens and my weaknesses. Not my Child, this god who stands before me, the one I stole from Death itself.

I finally nod. "Yes," I say. "I would do anything for the one who made my heart wish it could beat…" Eric flops onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling.

"I wanted my blood in her…" he finally says. "I just want a clue as to what she's feeling. Just a little glimpse into her world."

"Eric," I begin.

"If she's ever taken, I'll be able to track her better than Bill could," he interrupts. "It wasn't entirely selfish."

"Does she have feelings for you?" I gently ask.

Eric snorts and shakes his head. "She definitely feels something. I'm fairly certain she oscillates between barely tolerating my presence and down-right loathing me. I once suggested that I might grow on her, in time, and she actually said she'd prefer cancer."

I laugh. "Yet she didn't hesitate to save you tonight," I point out. "She left the arms of her lover to free you from silver chains in the church."

"That's one of the many things I don't understand about her. So many things…" Eric shrugs. "For all I know, she would've freed the Devil if he were suffering."

"And are you likening yourself to a devil?" I ask.

"Maybe," he says. "Sometimes."

"You sent for Bill's Maker, didn't you?" I quietly ask. Eric doesn't answer, his silence answering the nagging question that'd been in the back of my mind all night. "I wondered why she was here, since it was quite obvious she simply wanted him, yet this is not his home. You're the reason she knew where to find him."

"Do you want to order room service before dawn?" he asks.

"No," I say. "And don't change the subject: you sent for her."

"So what if I did?"

"I taught you better than that," I say.

"You taught me to survive," he responds, sitting up and glaring at me. "And that's what I'm doing: I'm surviving. And if Bill were honest, he'd admit that I'm better able to help her survive too."

"What do you mean?"

"She's a telepath," he says. "I don't know how Bill found her, but he's hiding something, and he won't tell me. But I'll tell you what I do know: once it gets out what she can do, they're going to come for her. Name me one King or Queen who won't try to possess her for themselves. Hell, most Sheriffs will come running. There's no way to keep it quiet indefinitely, and she'll be hunted down like a dog. Her only chance, and it's certainly not a guarantee, is to bond with someone who can protect her."

"You don't think he can adequately protect her?"

Eric snorts and lies back down. "He's not even two hundred years old. He has no nest." Eric shakes his head. "He'd die trying, of course, but what purpose would that serve if he's dead and she's taken against her will? Sentenced to live a long, unhappy life as a slave, forced probably into having children in hopes of creating another telepath, only to be turned on her deathbed in case the ability carries over? What if she comes to hear vampire-thoughts? They'll not hesitate before killing her. Tell me that wouldn't happen."

"So, just to clarify," I say. "You'll take her first, to prevent someone else with less noble intentions from taking her?"

"Damnit," Eric growls at me as he stares up at the ceiling. "You make me sound like such an asshole."

I smile and clear my throat. "Yes… Well…"

"Don't," he warns, although I can hear the teasing in his voice. "Don't start with me."

"No," I concede. "Not tonight." I feel the approaching dawn in my limbs, and I stand by the windows, looking over the city I've ruled for the past several decades. "You're in quite the predicament," I finally say.

"I know," he sighs.

"But you'll find a way to make it right," I tell him.

"I will?" Eric's voice is uncharacteristically uncertain.

"Yes. You will." I flip the switch on the wall, and the light-tight shutters clatter down over the windows. In the dark, I hear Eric shed his clothes and settle under the covers.

"Godric?" he says, his voice suddenly sounding very small. "Rest with me today?"

"Of course," I say, stripping off my clothes and coming to bed. I crawl under the sheets and snuggle into his broad, muscular chest. It's like coming home after a long, long journey, and I can't help but think of all the days we've spent in each other's arms, sometimes as lovers, sometimes as brothers, and sometimes as Maker and Child. "Thank you," I finally whisper.

"For what?" he whispers back.

"For coming for me."

Eric pulls his arms tightly around me and kisses the top of my head. "I would do anything for you," he vows.

I pull his hand to my lips and carefully kiss each of his long fingers. "I know that."

"Would you hold it against me if I accidentally slipped into her dreams?"

"Eric," I warn.

"Just checking," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "But I might do it anyway."

I sigh and shake my head, loving his playfulness, his sense of fun. It's a rare quality in a human adult, let alone an immortal who's lived 1,000 years. "Of course you will… You're Eric…"

"Would you have me any other way?" he asks for the second time tonight.

"I wouldn't change a thing," I whisper.

I'm still holding his hand when his body suddenly goes limp. I fight the urge to sleep, not wanting to miss a second of what I instinctively know is my last day. Although I hadn't planned for my life to end this way, and I know I don't deserve it, I can't think of a more perfect way to spend it. Maybe there will be a god waiting for me, but if there isn't, if I die and am merely dead, I will have this day, these arms wrapped around me, and the love of this Child. I hold Eric's hands to my lips, grateful for this final gift he's unknowingly giving me.

***

Eric stirs shortly before the sun has set, and when he realizes I'm still curled into his chest, he rumbles his appreciation and pulls me tighter. "I haven't woken up like this in a long time," he murmurs into my hair. "I thought you'd rise before me."

"I've been awake," I say. "But I was comfortable."

"Hmmm," he hums into my neck as his arms wrap around my chest, his fingers gently pinching my nipples. "I'm comfortable too." He nuzzles his nose along my neck, teases my ear with flicks of his tongue, and presses himself into my back.

"Eric," I sigh, reaching behind me to caress his hip. I know his body better than my own, having spent far more time admiring and touching him than myself. Even with my eyes closed, I can visualize every minute detail, from the scars on his thigh and his side, nicks from fighting during his human life, to the way his abdominal muscles form an arrow, pointing straight down to the most impressive part of Eric's physique.

I hear his fangs click into place, and he quietly groans as he sinks them into his palm. I can feel him behind me, smearing himself with his blood to make it slick. His hand comes around the front, and I lick what's left of his blood from his hand. He moans as his blood enters me, and his hand drifts down across my chest and lower, and as he strokes me, he eases into me from behind with well-practiced skill. His hand wraps around my length as he thrusts, gently grasping and squeezing me.

It's not the frantic coupling of desperation or need or fear; his movements are almost reverent, the act sacred. As I approach my release, he slowly sinks his fangs into the back of my neck. I immediately climax as he pulls on the wounds, and I feel his own shuddering release seconds later. He leans over me and demands, "Look at me," as he licks my blood from his fingers. I pull him into my arms, holding him tightly against me.

"Eric," I say as I kiss his forehead. He smiles at me, and we're still trembling in each other's arms when there's a knock on the door.

"Godric? It's Isabel."

Eric growls, and I lean over to kiss his shoulder. "There's much to do tonight," I whisper.

"I know."

I slip into my pants and open the door. Isabel enters and suddenly stops when she sees Eric still naked and sprawled in bed. He's carefully arranged himself so his best assets are clearly visible, and I shake my head and chuckle at his vanity.

"Am I disturbing you?" she asks, tearing her eyes away from Eric's beautiful bottom.

"No," I say at the same time Eric says, "Yes."

I smile. "No," I repeat. I flip the switch so the shutters retract from the windows.

"She's here already," Isabel says. From her grim expression, I know she can only be speaking about Nan Flanagan.

"She contacted you instead of me?"

Isabel nods. "And she's going room to room, questioning everyone. She's glamouring the humans when she's done. She says she wants to speak with you last."

"She's gathering ammunition," Eric mutters.

"You saved us all," Isabel says. "If it weren't for you, in the church, Stan…"

"Isabel," I interrupt. "Eric. Both of you. It's fine. I knew this was coming."

"They'll use this as an excuse to take you out," Eric says.

"Let's meet across the hall," I say to Isabel. "In Mr. Compton's room. Will you please ask him if that is acceptable?"

"Of course it is," Eric says.

"Isabel," I say. "Please ask. If it's acceptable, let Ms. Flanagan know where to find us, and we'll convene in about ten minutes."

"Godric," she says, her eyes rimming with blood tears. "This is my fault, not yours. I should've controlled Stan. My human was the traitor. I didn't find you…" Eric stands up and snorts, pulling on black slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt.

"Isabel," I quietly say as I put my hand on her arm. "I know you're upset about Hugo, but I don't blame you, and you shouldn't blame yourself." She sniffles and nods. "Please go and speak to Mr. Compton."

"Yes, Sheriff." After the door quietly closes, I can hear her muffled knock on the door across the hall.

"You're not taking the fall for this," Eric says, standing before me.

"Eric, please."

"I won't let you."

I smile at him and slip my shirt over my head. "Let's wait and see what she has to say."

"She never says anything good," Eric replies. I watch as he puts a worn chain around his neck. I recognize the Thor's Hammer I gave him so many centuries ago, the first gift I ever gave him.

"Feeling nostalgic?" I ask.

"No," he lies. He walks into the bathroom, and when the water is running, I slip the hotel stationary under the few things in his overnight bag. I'd held the pen in my hand for over an hour, trying to think of words that could contain the love I feel for him, but language had eluded me, and in the end, all I can offer him is the phone number for my human business manager, the account numbers for half of my vast holdings in several different countries, and the security codes for the houses in London, Japan, the Tuscan villa, and the mountain retreat in Peru.

"Are you ready?" I ask when he comes out.

"Godric, listen to me," Eric says. He stands before me, taking my hands into his own. Any other person would've been too close, but with Eric, he could never be close enough. "We'll fight this."

"Eric," I say. "Please. You've done enough."

"Godric…"

"Stop," I interrupt. "I can handle it."

Eric steps away and looks hurt. "I wasn't implying that you couldn't."

"Come." I open the door and step across the hall, knocking on Bill and Sookie's door.

Bill answers, looking grim. "Sheriff," he nods to me as he opens the door to allow us in. He only glares at Eric, who smirks back. Isabel and Sookie are already seated across from each other. I take the place next to Isabel, and Eric moves to sit on the sofa with Sookie. Bill growls at him, which only makes Eric chuckle as he flops nonchalantly onto the hassock, leaving the sofa for Bill.

"Everyone is taken care of?" I ask Isabel.

She nods. "Yes, Sheriff. And I've already spoken with our insurance company and the contractor. We have meetings with them just after dark tomorrow. We need to decide if we want to rebuild the nest or purchase something new."

"The Neighborhood Association will use this to try and kick us out again," I say. "You have to decide whether or not you want to fight them."

"We have to decide," she quietly says. In my peripheral, I see Eric looking pointedly at me. "You mean we have to decide."

"Of course," I say. Isabel and Eric are both staring at me, and Bill is watching Sookie, who's staring at Eric, and the room is too quiet and too crowded. Sookie's heartbeat sounds very loud, and the room smells strongly of their love-making. Eric is right, as usual; her scent is unique and sweet-smelling, unlike any human I've smelled before.

"Is this your first trip to Dallas, Miss Stackhouse?" I say to break the awkward silence.

"I came once before on a school trip," she says. "Mostly I'm a home-body."

I nod politely. "And Shreveport is your home?"

"Bon Temps," she corrects. "About an hour away."

"And what do you do there?" I ask.

"Sookie's a barmaid," Eric replies.

"Waitress," Bill quickly says, growling under his breath.

"Yes," Sookie says. "And apparently I can't speak for myself."

Isabel stifles a laugh, and I smile at Sookie. I like her feistiness, and I can understand why Eric likes it too. It'll drive him crazy, of course, as Eric often drives me crazy, but I can see the appeal. She's very much like him – I can see the fierceness in her eyes, the impulsiveness, but also the playful sense of wonder and delight. And Bill, the man trapped in between these two forces of nature, who seems so calm and measured, is a nice counter-balance for both Eric and Sookie.

A loud knock on the door disrupts our chat, and Bill immediately rises. "Sheriff?" he asks. "Shall I see who it is?"

"Thank you," I say, rising. Isabel, Eric, and Sookie follow, and we're all standing when Nan Flanagan strides in with two aides, a female vampire wearing worn jeans and a male in a suit.

She glares at all of us before finally sitting in the chair before the fire. Once she sits, I sit, and then everyone else. I watch as Bill casually puts his arm on the back of the sofa, a protective position if needs be. Eric glares at Nan Flanagan in open defiance, but everyone else looks at the ceiling or the floor. The whispers of traffic from the street, the crackle of the fire, and Sookie's wildly beating heart are the only sounds for several long minutes.

"Do you have any fucking idea of the PR mess you've made?" Nan Flanagan finally asks. Sookie flinches. "And who has to fucking clean that shit up? Me. Not you – me. I should drain every one of you bastards."

I look down at my hands, and I can feel Eric's impatience and bubbling anger. Sookie keeps sneaking glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and any other night, I'd be curious what he did in her sleep to make her interest so obvious.

"Stan went to the church on his own," Eric says. "None of us knew anything about it."

"Oh really?" she incredulously replies. "Because everyone who's known Stan in the last three hundred years knew that he had a kink about slaughtering humans. But you? His nestmates, his Sheriff, had no clue?"

"And how were we supposed to know that this time he meant it?" Isabel retorts.

"Not my problem," Nan Flanagan says. "Yours."

"Don't talk to him that way," Eric says, his voice low and dangerous.

"Don't talk to me that way," she says, smiling at him. "Let's get to the point: how did they manage to abduct you?"

I look at her for the first time since she entered the room. "They would've taken one of us sooner or later," I explain. "I offered myself." I can feel Eric's shock and hurt, and although it's too late, I wish I'd told him myself before this moment.

"Why?" Nan Flanagan asks, clearly disgusted.

"Why not?"

"They wanted you to meet the sun, and you were willing?" Her tone implies that she doesn't believe me. I can feel Eric's eyes boring into me, his blood willing me to turn around. Sookie's back to looking at him, and Bill's looking at her, and if I weren't afraid for all of them, it would almost be entertaining.

"What do you think?" I ask her.

"I think you're out of your mind," she quickly replies. "And then I hear about a traitor?"

Isabel stiffens next to me, and if it wouldn't tip off Nan Flanagan, I would offer Isabel some small comfort. Instead, I quickly answer before she has a chance to implicate herself. I need Isabel to remain in the AVL's good graces; she needs to take over, not someone else. "Irrelevant. Only a rumor. I'll take full responsibility."

"You bet you will," Nan Flanagan ruthlessly replies.

"You cold bitch," Eric quietly observes.

"Listen," she says. "This is a national vampire disaster, and nobody at the top has any sympathy for any of you." She sighs for dramatic effect. "Sheriff," she says to me. "You fucked up. You're fired."

"I agree," I quickly say before Isabel or Eric can object. "Of course. Isabel should take over; she had no part in my disgrace."

"Godric," Isabel says to me. "Fight back."

"What are you saying?" Eric accuses in an angry voice that's too loud in the small room. "She's…. She's a bureaucrat! You don't have to take shit from her."

At his outburst, Bill's head snaps to him, watching him intently. Sookie is staring too, and I know, whatever their difficulties, that both care deeply for my Child. Knowing that I'm not going to leave him alone, not even this night, is another unexpected and undeserved comfort.

"You want to lose your Area, Viking?" Nan Flanagan threatens.

"You don't have that kind of power," Eric calmly counters.

"Hey, I'm on TV." She smiles at him, and it's cold and dangerous. "Try me."

"I'm to blame," Isabel exclaims. "I should've contained Stan the second Godric went missing."

"Isabel," I say, turning to her. She submissively bows her hand, and I silently thank her for her gracious service. "I remove myself from all positions of authority," I tell Nan Flanagan.

"Works for me," she crispy replies.

Sookie shuffles on the sofa as if she's going to stand, and Bill stops her. "Sookie," he whispers, which is pointless as it's not as if the rest of us can't hear him. "Sookie."

"I owe him," she whispers back. "Miss Flanagan," she says in a calm voice. "Godric rescued me from a really large rapist, who probably would've killed me too."

"That's nice," she sneers, not even looking at Sookie in the eyes. "Moving on…"

"No!" Sookie interrupts. Eric and Bill both stiffen, and I send out a small prayer that this ends quickly and without bloodshed. I know both men will kill for her if necessary, and while I'd gladly welcome the end of Nan Flanagan, I certainly don't want Eric or Bill to pay the price for it. "Listen," she insists. "And then he rescued humans in that church, plus a whole lot of vampires. You think it's a PR mess now? It would've been a hundred, no – a million, times worse. You should thank him."

Nan Flanagan bores into Sookie, who does not shrink back or look afraid, although I hear her heart beating even more quickly. If she weren't with vampires, no one would suspect her fear, which is really quite admirable for someone so young and fragile.

"For getting kidnapped?" Nan Flanagan spits out. "For attracting a suicide bomber? For piss-poor judgment? I think not."

Eric growls and rises. Isabel and Bill immediately step between him and Nan Flanagan, and Sookie leans back into the couch, her eyes wide.

"Eric," I quietly say. "It doesn't matter."

After an uncomfortable silence, everyone sits back down.

"Tell me about the bombing, please," Nan Flanagan finally says. "Every single detail."

"A boy walked into the lair," I begin. "I thought he was someone's human companion. He called for everyone's attention, introduced himself, and then opened his jacket, revealing the bombing device. Before anyone could act, he detonated it."

Nan Flanagan looks at me, and then looks at everyone else. "And that's it?"

I nod. "That is what happened."

"No one smelled the C4? No one smelled the silver?"

"It was a party, for fuck's sake," Eric explodes. "We weren't thinking we were under attack."

"Eric," I quietly say. "Please."

"Isabel, you're known to be an empath," Nan Flanagan says. "Is this true?"

"It is," Isabel replies.

"And you didn't sense anything?"

"Godric and I were not in the main room when he entered," Isabel explains. "We were… otherwise engaged."

"Doing what?"

"Having a private conversation," Isabel snaps. "When he called everyone's attention, we moved into the main room, and yes, I sensed a problem immediately, but as Godric already explained, there wasn't time to react."

Nan Flanagan stares all of us down in turn, even Sookie, who blushes and sinks back into the sofa. "What a fucking fiasco," she finally says. "You're lucky I don't call the Magister." I watch as Bill visibly shudders and puts his hand on Sookie's shoulder, more for his sake than hers. "Godric," she continues. "Come to my suite and fill out the forms."

"Soon," I say. "First I have something to say: I'm sorry." I can feel Eric's bubbling panic as he realizes my intentions, but I push past them and focus on the present. "I apologize for all the harm I've caused. For our lost ones, human and vampire… I will make amends, I swear."

"Take it easy," Nan Flanagan says as she stands. "It's just a few signatures." She pats my shoulder as she walks past, and I taste the blood in my mouth as I bite my tongue at the insult. Nan Flanagan, who's young and without special power should know better than to touch me, but I say nothing and watch as she leaves with her aides, and everyone awkwardly stands.

Eric is upon me, hunched over so he can peer directly into my eyes. I smile at the memory of all the times I played his son or younger cousin for the sake of deceiving humans. "No," he says.

"Look in my heart…" I whisper.

"You have to listen to me," he insists.

"There's nothing to say," I gently tell him.

"There is."

I sigh. "On the roof." I nod to Isabel, and she and I walk towards the elevators.

"Isabel," I say once the doors are safely closed. "This is for you." I pass her the sealed envelope that has instructions to the safe-room, as well as account numbers for the other half of my vast holdings.

"Godric," she says, turning to me. "You can't do this. Listen to me."

"Isabel," I sigh.

"Listen to Eric, then," she says. "Please."

"I hope you never get to the point where you understand," I say. The elevator quietly dings as it opens at Nan Flanagan's floor. We step out, and Isabel stops me with her hand on my arm.

"Godric. Please."

"You will be a good Sheriff, Isabel." Her eyes immediately begin to tear. "I'm honored to have known you, and to have counted you as one of my friends. I couldn't have asked for better companionship." I gently shrug off her hand and continue to Nan Flanagan's room. I knock on the door, and it's opened immediately by the aide in the suit.

Without a word, I walk over to the conference table, where Nan Flanagan has all the requisite forms prepared and laid out. My remaining Sheriff was never an option. I quickly sign and lay the pen back on the table.

"No hard feelings?" Nan Flanagan says, which implies she has any feelings at all.

I smile. "No," I say.

"Where's Isabel? I need to speak with her."

"She's coming in a moment," I say. I bow politely and leave. Isabel is standing outside the door, but I've said what I want to say. She senses that and lets me pass without comment. Instead of the elevator, I open the fire-door to the stairwell and fly up to the roof, where Eric is pacing as he waits for me.

"Godric," he says, rushing to me.

"Eric." I stand on the roof facing east, my back to my Child who's fluctuating between fear and anger and hurt. The sky is still dark, but I can see the faintest of lightening beginning, much too subtle for human eyes to detect, and I smile at the horizon.

I hear footsteps on the stairs and a heartbeat, and I'm not surprised when Sookie stands near the steps, silently looking at me and Eric. I wonder if she's come for me or for him. Maybe a little of both…

"Two thousand years is enough," I say, to both myself and to Eric.

"I cannot accept this," he spits out. "It's insanity."

"Our existence in insanity," I say, turning to face him. "We don't belong here."

"But we are here!" he yells.

"It's not right," I say. "We're not right."

"You taught me there is no right or wrong, only survival or death."

I sigh. "I told a lie, as it turns out."

He clenches his fists and walks towards me. "I will keep you alive by force," he threatens.

I smile. "Even if you could," I say. "Why would you be so cruel?"

Eric begins to cry, the sobs shaking his body. "Godric, gör inte det."

"Finns århundraden av tro och kärlek mellan oss," I say, pleading with him to understand.

Eric weeps even harder. "Snälla. Snälla." He drops to his knees, his head bowed as if in prayer, and it's all I can do to resist him. I can't bear my Child's grief, and the smell of his blood-tears is heavy in my nose, and I resist the urge to lick them because there can be no redemption without pain. Seeing him suffer, knowing that I am the cause, is far worse than any physical pain I have ever endured or will endure in a few minutes' time. My Eric. My Child. My beloved.

"Snälla, Godric," he pleas.

"Far. Bror. Son," I say, repeating the words I spoke to him when he was still human, just before I turned him. Eric, my one decision I don't regret, not even for a moment, in a very long lifetime. "Let me go."

Eric looks up at me, the blood tears staining his beautiful face. He swallows and looks suddenly calm and resolved. "I won't let you die alone," he finally vows.

"Yes you will," I quickly answer. My words spark a fresh onslaught of tears, and I put my hand on the back of Eric's neck. "As your Maker," I say, both of us knowing that Eric's been released for centuries and is under no compulsion to obey. "I command you."

The sky is beginning to lighten dangerously when he slowly rises to his full height. He looks at me one last time, and without a word, walks towards the stairs. It's Sookie who stops him, her hand lost in his as she soothes him.

"I'll stay with him," she promises Eric. "As long as it takes." Eric doesn't respond, but he does leave the roof without looking back, and Sookie walks towards me in her little red and white checked dress, like a child in a fairy-tale, so innocent and out of place among creatures of the night.

"It won't take long," I tell her. "Not at my age."

"You know," she says. "It wasn't very smart. The Fellowship of the Sun part?"

"I know," I reply, still facing the coming dawn. "I thought it might fix everything somehow, but I don't think like a vampire anymore." I turn and face her. "Do you believe in God?"

"Yes," she immediately replies with certainty and conviction.

"If you're right, how will he punish me?"

Sookie shakes her head and smiles gently at me. "God doesn't punish; God forgives."

I marvel at the modern humans, their lives so filled with softness and luxury. Even their Gods are gentle. But I know I need this suffering. Even if this version of God doesn't require it, I do.

"I don't deserve it," I confess. "But I hope for it."

"We all do."

"Will you care for him?" She looks confused. "Eric?"

"I'm not sure," she answers. "You know how he is."

I smile. "I can take the blame for that, too."

"Maybe not?" she says. "Eric's pretty much himself." I nod, knowing that she understands Eric more than either of them realizes, and I'm glad he's bonded with her, no matter the consequences for how he did it. Regardless of her anger or his stubbornness, eventually, I have ultimate faith in my Child and his choice of human who stands before me, unflinchingly loyal to the end.

I feel the sun, and I look once more to the east, knowing that the end is so very near.

"Are you very afraid?" she finally asks.

"No," I say. I smile as I feel the weight of two thousand years lift from my shoulders. "No. I'm full of joy."

"But the pain…" she says.

"I want to burn," I try to explain that I need to atone somehow for my sins.

"Well, I'm afraid for you." At that, Sookie begins to cry, her tears sweet and fragrant in the early morning light.

I feel the rays on my skin, and I can smell my flesh beginning to smolder, and I almost wish I had one more day with this human. "A human with me at the end," I say. She closes her eyes, and the tears spill down her cheeks. "And human tears. Two thousand years, and I can still be surprised. In this, I see God."

I smile once more at Sookie, for yet another unexpected and undeserved final gift, and then I motion her away. I take off my shirt and walk to the edge of the roof, getting as close to the sun as I can. I step to the horizon I've avoided for two millennia, and I force myself to open my eyes against the glaring light and look at the beauty that is my final death.

"Goodbye, Godric," Sookie whispers.

I hold out my arms and close my eyes. I focus every fiber of my being on the burn. I don't hide from it or shy away; I revel in it. I allow it to wash over me, and I can feel the blue-flames erupt from my core. They cast a glow over my vision, and with a final searing sigh, there is no more pain.

I watch as Sookie stands alone on the roof, and she leans over to rest her palm against the concrete where I last stood. And then she stands, and she quietly walks back downstairs to her room. Bill is in bed, forcing himself awake, waiting for her. To comfort her before he rests. But Sookie hesitates outside Eric's door, her ear pressed against the wood. He is weeping inside, and he doesn't hear her tap her fingers lightly on the door. She waits, and she taps again before slipping into her own room across the hall. Eric looks up, as if he senses something, and I know that it's not too late, not for any of them. All three are but infants in this world, and there is plenty of time.

There is nothing but light that does not burn, and I know I need to fly one last time.

The End, which is really to say, The Beginning

_____________________________________________________________________

Translations:

Godric, gör inte det. = Godric, don't do it.

Finns århundraden av tro och kärlek mellan oss. = There are centuries of faith and love between us.

Snälla. Snälla. Snälla, Godric. = Please. Please. Please, Godric.

Far. Bror. Son. = Father. Brother. Son.


End file.
